With Blood
by Mirrordance
Summary: Bobby Singer was just a friend to a widower, not minding the occasional babysitting. But his devotion for the Winchester family truly began when he was struck by a terminal illness and saved only by a sacrifice from Dean. Pre-Series.
1. Chapter 1

* * *

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **With Blood**

Summary:Bobby Singer was just a friend to a widower, not minding the occasional babysitting. But his devotion for the Winchester family truly began when he was struck by a terminal illness and saved only by a sacrifice from Dean. Pre-Series.

**Hi gang!**

Thanks to all who read, alerted, favorited and especially all who reviewed my last story, _Heroes for Ghosts_. The reception to that fic was so incredible, and I am so grateful for your support. I am about bursting with excitement for the season premiere tomorrow, and as a kind-of salute to the happiness that will surely come when the episode airs after such a long wait, I am posting the first chapter of my new fic, _With Blood_. I hope you enjoy it and as always, I heartily welcome all c&c's. Thanks again and 'til the next post!

**

* * *

**

With Blood

* * *

**1: Your Time**

_2002_

* * *

The arrogant rumbling of that goddamn car was unmistakable.

The Impala ate up ground all lordly and gleaming black, and that self-aware, unconscionable purr was her soundtrack. She was a gorgeous piece of work, that beauty, and it was just _a little_ too bad that her arrival inextricably heralded stray cats into the Singer Salvage Yard.

Bobby sighed, part in fondness and part in resignation.

_Here come the Winchesters_... all nine lives of each of the three of them, snarling and licking at their wounds.

He looked at his useless lump of black dog lying on its stomach in front of his television, looking unworried and disinterested by the approach.

"You a guard dog or what?" Bobby asked him.

Rumsfeld glanced up at him but didn't otherwise move, not even when Bobby leaned down and sniffed lightly at the fur on his big head.

"At least ya don't stink," he declared.

The junkman trudged to the fridge in his weathered kitchen, grabbed three bottles of cold beer and deftly twisted the caps off. He took a good swig off of each one, and then drew the ever-handy flask of holy water from his pocket and refilled the swigs he had taken. He left the bottles on the counter and gave his pantry a quick scan. Enough to feed an army, as always. Which was good because Dean Winchester was coming.

He checked the first aid kit under the sink, one of many he kept in the house. He was unsurprised but nevertheless happy that it was well-stocked, because every time John and his boys came along, someone always had a hole somewhere that needed fixing.

He hastily put his newest book acquisitions on easy view in the living room too - easier to keep the increasingly impatient and profoundly _teenage_ Sam Winchester occupied that way.

Bobby watched the Impala languidly stop to a park from his window. He wiped his greasy hands uselessly against equally-greasy pants, and then removed his cap and matted his hair down before smartly slipping it back on. Not that there was anyone to look good for, and most of the time the Winchesters came in looking much worse than he did. It was just that there were a very few people in the world who looked happy to see him, and he might as well look a little bit presentable.

He pulled open the door of his home just as John Winchester swung heavy legs off the driver's side of the car and rose to his feet. Bobby gave him a welcoming nod, before turning to the other doors of the car expectantly.

He waited for the latest incarnation of Sam to come bounding out the backseat. He looked different every time Bobby saw him, just getting bigger and bigger. The only thing that didn't change was that he was always stomping-angry or stomping-excited about something.

He waited for the theatric emergence of Dean from the passenger seat, indulgent and suave, dressing more and more in John's hand-me-downs and curiously enough looking more and more like that gorgeous mother of his instead. _Hell yeah_ Bobby knew how the aspirational Mary looked like; the Winchesters have spent enough time at the Yard for John to have drawn out and drunkenly rambled about her photograph from his wallet a few times. Bobby doubted that old man Winchester would even remember any of that, or want to.

Bobby frowned when none of the other car doors opened and John jogged over to the one on the passenger side, its immaculate glass windows shining and hiding what Bobby guessed would be Dean's hunched figure. He walked toward them apprehensively.

"John?"

"Kid got himself banged up some," replied the other hunter with a grunt. He opened the door and leaned in, reaching for Dean's legs and swinging them over to the ground. Bobby angled his body just-so, looking around John's considerable bulk to find the younger Winchester looking rail-thin and pale as a sheet, green eyes just hollowed out in painkillers even as his tightly-set jaws screamed that he probably wasn't having enough of them. The source of the aggravation was apparently a heavily-casted right leg, mid-thigh down to just below the knee. Stiff, shaky movements, the bruised and scarred left arm folded and wrapped around his chest and the gauzed-up right arm slung over John's shoulders only promised that Bobby could only see the worst of what was actually more hurts.

"_Jesus_, John," Bobby breathed, wanting to move forward to help, but not knowing quite where to grab or touch... the kid was a mess.

"He'll be all right," came the curt reply.

"Yeah, but--"

"I know, Bobby," John growled, "Can it."

"Where's Sam?" Bobby inquired warily, peering into the empty backseat, "He all right?"

"Packed up and went off on his own a couple months back," John said gruffly, "Doing better 'n all of us. Dean-o here," he readjusted his grip as the three men ambled toward the house, "He just has to get used to a bare right side now, huh? Gotta cover that better."

"Not," Dean gasped, surprising Bobby with some semblance of alertness, "Not Sam's fault."

"Never is," John mumbled, stopping by the porch steps of the house and sighing as if he was standing at the foot of a mountain, "Bobby, you wanna make this place handicap accessible?"

The junkman snorted at his guest, and moved over to Dean's other side. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just..." John said, eyes already calculating some form of plan, "Just grab the duffel in the back, would you?"

"You got him?"

"'Course I do."

Bobby shrugged and walked back to the car, tried not to turn around when he heard Dean's gasping whimper of "_Dad..._" and John's quick and panicky assurances of "_I got you, almost there, you're doing good..._"

Bobby shook his head and sighed, wondering how things would have been for him if his wife had lived, if... if they had a kid of their own. The thought caused a familiar twist in his gut, and he just leaned over the Impala's backseat, grabbed the duffel and slammed the door shut.

* * *

Bobby returned to his house to find Dean asleep on the couch in his living room, the old brown monstrosity folding around the young hunter in a familiar way, sinking beneath his weight lovingly. Dean's left arm was hanging off of the couch, and Bobby was going to put the limb to rest on Dean's chest until he found that Dean's left hand rested right smack on top of Rumsfeld's big head. The dog laid down on the floor by Dean and looked pleased with himself.

Bobby rolled back his eyes and put the duffel down on the floor quietly, before seeking out John and finding him in the kitchen, staring at the three beer bottles on the counter.

"You're gonna need to start putting out just two now that Sam's up and left," John said to him.

"That's all right," Bobby said carefully, "More for me."

John sat down on one of the battered seats around the dining table and ran his hands through his hair.

"You all right?" Bobby felt compelled to ask.

"Yeah," John winced.

"Kid got too close to the fire for your liking, huh?" Bobby guessed, pushing one of the beer bottles his way. "Go take your drink, Winchester. Dean obviously gets a free pass, this one time. And you look like you need it."

John shrugged and downed a third of the bottle in a gulp, "It's a dangerous gig."

"And he's still your son," Bobby pointed out, "You got rights to be shaky whenever he gets hurt. What the hell happened?"

"The usual shit," John said, looking at Bobby pointedly, "And the hunt ain't done yet."

Bobby frowned. "You want me to send someone up there?"

"I did when I was in the hospital with Dean," John replied, wincing again and drinking again, "But I lost a guy already. Davids, you know him. Good man, dirty fighter? Kids and a goddamn widow up in Stamford, now. Terrain's a tricky bitch too. I've called up some people; it ain't a one-man job. But more and more I know I gotta be there. Terrains a bitch, I said." He looked at Bobby meaningfully.

"You leavin' Dean here?" Bobby asked, though he already knew the answer.

"There's kids out there dying, Bobby. I gotta go back and take care of this."

"You don't need to sell it," Bobby said, "It's just..."

He stared at his old friend, who looked exhausted but as driven as always.

"I like having your runts around, you know that," Bobby said, scratching the back of his neck uneasily, not quite able to find the words to say that he wasn't really in a position to be caring for anyone at the moment, much less a belligerent Dean whom he knew from experience he sometimes had to _fight_ to help.

"Only a couple of days," John promised. He looked sincere and he probably thought he was telling the truth, but Bobby doubted it was how things would turn out because it almost never did, with John. One hunt stretched longer than expected, and one became two or three, the next state became two states over and so on, and with Dean laid up like he was, Bobby was almost sure the younger Winchester wasn't going anywhere with his father until he was much more mobile and functional.

Normally, Dean staying wouldn't be a problem. As a matter of fact, it was almost always a pleasure. But things were a bit different...

How could he tell an old friend that he was in no position to be caring for anyone else but himself right now?

How could he tell an old friend that he was sick? Or – _scratch that crap_ – dying?

But John had to do what he had to do, as always, in a hunt god knows where. And Dean... Dean would have suffered getting dragged to hell and back by his daddy, but tanked up on painkillers on one leg was a little too much to ask, wasn't it? He'd end up passed out alone in a motel or in pain for endless hours on the road, looking as sick and thin as Bobby had just seen him.

Bobby resolved that though he might be ill, these damn bones had some kick to them yet.

"Fine, I got him," Bobby said, "A coupla days, huh?"

"Yeah."

_Poor, clueless liar_.

"Does he know?" Bobby asked, "Your brat hates getting left behind and he turns into a bigger pain in the ass."

"I wanted to get you in first," John said, "I shoulda known you'd say yes."

"Damn straight."

John smiled a little then, looking as if he hasn't done it in a long time, like it was a crack on his face. "You're a good man, Singer."

* * *

"Hey," father called to son, the older man lightly tapping Dean's uninjured left leg, "Hey, Dean."

The sleep-even breathing hitched, and fever-bright green eyes fluttered open and immediately found his father's face.

"Know where you are?" John asked.

Irritation flashed across Dean's eyes, "Of course I kn--"

"Yeah, yeah," John cut him off, waving his hand around vaguely, "I'm headed out."

Dean took a deep breath and moved to sit up, but his father's hand was already pressed to his chest. He grit his teeth in determination and held his father's wrist in a death grip, trying to get it off of him.

"You listen to me," John said, voice turning unsubtly into the clipped Drill Sergeant version, "You stay here, you get better, all right? I'll be back in a couple of days, you hear? I gotta finish the hunt, but I'll check in, all right?"

"No," Dean said, voice hoarse, sounding and looking like a child for the first time in more than a decade, "Dad, please."

"Aw, come on, kid," Bobby piped in, appearing beside John, "I'm not that bad."

"Now you settle down," John said to Dean, "And not give your uncle Bobby any headaches."

"Uncle?" Bobby snorted, "Your boy hasn't shown me any respect in years."

"See?" Dean pointed out, gasping when he tried to shift away from his father and jostled his leg. He grit his teeth and hissed, "He doesn't want me here."

"Aw, hell, Dean," Bobby said, taking pity, "You know I do--"

Dean gave him a small grin, eyes weary but alight for the first time since he was brought in the house, and Bobby knew he'd just been had.

"Nervy bastard," Bobby grumbled, rising to his feet.

John chuckled, patting Dean lightly on the uninjured leg again, "No headaches, I said."

"He's laughing inside," Dean guaranteed as he shifted and winced again.

"You know what else is inside my head?" Bobby asked, "I'm thinking about my hands, wrapped tight around a punk's scrawny neck."

"You two are a riot," John sighed, "I'm heading out. Back in a couple of days, champ."

* * *

"He thinks he means it, but he doesn't," was the first thing Dean said to him, the very moment John stepped out the door. The audience just left, and he could be more truthful now. The kid's eyes turned glazed and lonely, helplessly drug-honest as he looked up at Bobby earnestly, "That's kind of sadder, isn't it?"

Bobby knew what Dean meant. It wasn't going to be a few days and they both knew it.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Dean said, "I swear to god I'm outta your hair as soon as--"

"Don't even think about it, boy," Bobby snapped, "'Sides, who says I'm not gonna work you like a dog to make up for sleeping in my house and eating my food?"

"You know you don't mean it but you still say it," Dean said, "Now _that_'s sad."

"I'll figure something out," Bobby promised him. It sounded a little like a threat, which they both knew Dean found more palatable than being a helpless charity case.

"Hm," Dean murmured mildly, eyes beginning to slide close sleepily.

"You go settle in down here," Bobby said gruffly, patting his leg and picking up the duffel bag from the floor.

"Hey, Bobby?" Dean called after him.

"Don't thank me 'til we both come outta the next few weeks without killing each other, boy," Bobby growled at him, reading his mind.

Dean snickered and relaxed against the sofa.

* * *

John had set aside in a battered old envelope Dean's pertinent medical records and the medication he needed. Winchester was an anal sonofabitch about certain things and Bobby had no trouble at all figuring out what Dean was going to need. John had even snuck in a wad of bills to pay for incidentals that Bobby had no plans whatsoever of touching.

He thoughtfully walked up the stairs to the upper-level of his house. The place was damn big, too much space for a widower, really, but came in handy in terms of housing the occasional guest. The Winchesters dropped by frequently enough for John to have made constant use of a particular room, and for his sons to share another.

He stopped outside Dean and Sam's room.

There was one bedroom in the entire world where Dean allowed himself to sleep on the bed furthest from the door, and it was this one. Normally, Dean would plant himself between his younger brother and all dangers that would come through a door. In Bobby's house, he felt Sam would be safer by the door because Bobby's room was across the hall from theirs, and Dean would be much more useful keeping himself between Sam and the window.

_Sam_...

So...Sam was gone. Should he plant Dean in John's usual room instead? Probably not, as Dean was not a very big fan of change. But, stationed in a two-bed room occupying just one of them and leaving the other empty kind-of magnified Sam's absence too.

_Keep him on the couch_, Bobby considered, knowing it would be convenient in terms of refraining from moving Dean and hauling him up the stairs, and Bobby wouldn't have to bring food from the kitchen so far. Then again that couch, while comfortable, was no place to be healing up a broken body either.

"The usual spot it is," Bobby said to himself, putting down the envelope in the drawer on the nightstand separating the two beds. He kept the orange prescription pill bottles out though, and left them on top of the table beneath the night lamp.

He grabbed some fresh linens from a cabinet in the hall and put matching sheets on the two beds; his wife had been a stickler for symmetry and it was a habit he was loathe to shake, especially since all the rest of the house had gone to disrepair after she died. He plucked out and set down a thick, white towel too; Dean Winchester liked his indulgent baths, and the swiped, threadbare motel-issue towels in the duffel just would not do for convalescence.

He went down to his kitchen, grabbed a couple bottles of water and some packs of crackers and set them on the night table too. From his living room he snatched up a bunch of books – Dean had a quiet heart for the contemporary classics – and left them there as well.

Finally, he went back to the living room and looked at his sleeping charge. Dean's hand was resting on Rumsfeld's head so naturally and casually that Bobby was tempted to pick up the dog and leave it on the nightsand also.

"Yeah you should be so lucky," Bobby muttered at the mutt, who was looking at him with the lazily doleful eyes that had Bobby bringing him home in the first place, as if knowing what the junkman was thinking.

"Hey, Dean?" Bobby called out, leaning next to the younger hunter, "You ready to move to a decent bed?"

Dean stirred lightly, and his brows furrowed at the heightened pain that always accompanied waking up. "What?"

"A bed, kid," Bobby said, "Upstairs."

"You, me and your rickety stairs," Dean murmured, eyes opening and looking at the older man, "You serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"That's pretty serious."

"Dean-"

"But there's no TV there," Dean pointed out, pouting prettily. Bobby wanted to smack him over the head.

"I got you some books."

"Do I look like The Sasquatch to you?"

"Dean--"

"I can't," Dean cut him off, no longer sounding flippant, sounding self-loathing instead, "I can't, all right? I'm not... I'm not much use getting up there."

"I know," Bobby said, now understanding the boy's earlier obtuseness, "I gotcha."

"I'll take us both down," Dean said quietly, averting his eyes, "End up breaking your neck. Dad's all bruised and hurting lugging me around. He warn you about that?"

"Well he's older than me," Bobby joked, and the delivery was so flat that it made Dean smile a little, as it was supposed to, "Not as fit, you know."

"I knew that," the kid said, wryly.

"Do I look like a fragile flower to you, boy?"

"Well you're a big softie," Dean pointed out.

"Maybe if this was a couple weeks back, I'd have ended up dropping ya," Bobby said, "But I hate to break this to you, Dean. You look in a mirror lately? You're rail-thin. All bones and a big mouth. I think I can handle that."

"Even the big mouth?"

"Well maybe not the big mouth," Bobby said, lips quirking, "You ready?"

Dean glanced past Bobby at the stairs that seemed to just go on and on forever. "No. But when did that matter?"

"Damn straight," Bobby said, helping him sit up. He felt the younger man's body stiffen up as his teeth grit and his jaws clenched on his pained cries. Dean breathed harshly, and Bobby lost his nerve. Briefly, he considered having Dean stay where he was and abandoning this damned crusade.

"Maybe we should just keep you here," Bobby murmured.

"Don't flake out on me now," Dean gasped, "I'm gonna bitch because it's gonna hurt like hell, but for god's sake don't stop, and go as fast as you can."

"You sure about this?"

"I just realized I don't wanna look like a discarded rag on your couch, man," Dean said with a wince, as he raised his right arm and Bobby placed it over his shoulders, "Maybe you wanna have people over."

"Yeah, right."

"Like," Dean gasped again when Bobby pulled them both to their feet, "Like a lady-friend or something."

"Since when?!" Bobby snapped, as he dragged the two of them toward the foot of the stairs. The dog was trailing obtrusively, almost tripping him and certainly making him cuss, "Damnitt Rumsfeld!"

"Since now," Dean muttered, and Bobby could feel his body shaking and tightening, just locking itself against the onslaught of pain. His head was lolling around, mirroring his efforts to stay alert.

"After all these years?" Bobby asked, realizing that Dean was effectively distracting the both of them, and he's already dragged them up three steps without noticing.

"You got lots to offer and your wife... she'd want you to be happy," Dean said.

"Would she?" Bobby snapped, biting back, _You wouldn't know. You don't know what I had to do to her. You don't know..._

"Why... why wouldn't she?" Dean asked.

"Is that what you say to your daddy?" Bobby asked, shifting the onus the other way. Three more steps up. Dean was getting heavier and heavier against his side, breaths coming out in a tight wheeze from his stiffened frame.

"Breathe, boy!" Bobby commanded.

Dean obediently exhaled and ended up coughing instead, doubling over and almost sending them to the ground. He sagged against Bobby in a dead faint, and if the older hunter were less agile, they'd have come tumbling back down the way they came.

Grunting with the effort, Bobby shifted his grip and picked up Dean in a cradle that would have had the mouthy brat either biting his head off or feeding him some inappropriate line if he was even just half-aware.

Bobby sighed and carried Dean over to his usual bed, and he could have sworn that they both sighed in relief at the exact same time when he lowered Dean on the obliging mattress. Bobby looked down at the younger hunter and satisfied that he was out for now, unlaced his boots and pulled them off so that he could sleep more comfortably.

Dean's socks were funny looking and Bobby could not help but stare; they were painfully clean but they were faded and there were mismatched color patches on the toes and heels. There were so many patches that Dean might as well have sewn an entirely new pair of socks on his own.

"You got a fetish or something?" Dean murmured, eyes half-open. The green of his eyes were glazed over, making them glisten. They looked like jewels in the poor light of the room.

"Nice patch up job," Bobby said, trying to keep a straight face.

"Sammy said I should throw 'em away."

"Why didn't you?"

"'Cos _Sammy said I should throw 'em away_," Dean grinned sleepily. He pursed his lips, and his gaze registered more awareness, and all the pensive loneliness that accompanied it. He averted his gaze, "I saw him, you know, when he was packing his clothes to leave us. He picked it up and thought about bringing 'em with him, I swear to god. What a sentimental idiot."

"Why didn't he bring 'em?"

"'Cos he knows they're my favorite."

"Speaking of sentimental idiots," Bobby said.

Dean smiled tightly, "Hey, Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"I told you, you're not so heavy anymore," Bobby said.

"It's not that," Dean cleared his throat, "Your wife, I shouldn't have said--"

"No steaks for you until I'm sure I'm not gonna end up carting your ass places," Bobby said, tone calm though the volume of his voice had risen, drowning out the rest of what Dean was trying to say. He looked at the younger hunter imploringly, asking him without words just to drop the damn subject of his .

"Well," Dean murmured after a long moment of thought, "You always burn 'em anyway."

* * *

Something woke him, deep in the night.

Bobby's eyes snapped open and he stared up at the cracking ceiling of his room, wondering what it is that had woken him because it was so damn quiet. He looked at the time: 3am. He had put Dean to sleep just a few hours ago; the kid was pliant about taking some crackers and his pills, and then went straight to dreamland.

The night was quiet, still. He liked the solitude of his Yard at weird hours, the odd clinks of wind against battered metal, leaves brushing against the wood of his house, the off-key singing of the loose side of his business sign swinging with the breezes.

He sat up, wondered if he had dreamed about something and just forgot what it was. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly and decided that since he was up anyway, he might as well check on his guest.

Quietly, barefoot so as he would not wake the usually sharp-eared younger hunter, he walked to the slightly open door of Dean's room. He peered inside and jumped in spite of himself; Dean's emerald gaze met his squarely.

"Cripes, kid!" Bobby hissed, "Warn an old man, would you?"

Dean closed his eyes, and in the dull light of the moon seeping in the room, Bobby saw the streaks of tears that tracked from his eyes to his cheek and then down to the pillow. Dean's body was practically damn _folded _in on itself, and his pale face was glistening with a fine sheet of sweat. He was trembling, hands clawed around his casted limb, and his breath came in deep and measured, very carefully controlled. Bobby made to stepped forward in a panic, "Did I get the dosage wr--"

His voice fell flat when Dean's eyes snapped open and pinned him where he was.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Dean inhumanly making absolutely no sound whatsoever, except for his screaming, anguished green eyes. Bobby marveled at his resolve, and his heart felt cold at the idea that this probably wasn't the first time the young hunter laid in bed in a room somewhere, biting his lip against his pain, lying still and unmoving, fearing to bother his father or his brother. Painfully constrained, soundless crying.

"Sorry if I woke you," Dean rasped, breaking the spell.

"What can I do?" Bobby whispered, as if they were going to be waking up anyone else.

Dean took a deep, shaky breath. "No offense, man. But you gotta leave me the fuck alone right now."

"Dean--"

"It goes away in the morning," Dean whimpered, "I promise, it goes away. God, Bobby, just... I can't do this right now... Get the hell out..."

_Can't face you. Can't pretend. Can't hide. Can't, can't _bethis _in front of you..._

"You know where I'll be," Bobby said, his mouth dry, not knowing what else he could do for the younger man. Wanting to hold him or something and at the same time, wanting to respect him as a man, not understanding if there was some form of middle-ground.

He walked back to his own room, stared at the ceiling and and didn't fall asleep for _hours_.

* * *

Something woke him midmorning.

The sun was high up in the sky, and the suffering young hunter who looked like death the night before was leaning heavily against his doorframe, hair neatly combed and clothes fresh and changed. His eyes were bright, alert, fully in possession of himself again. He was holding out a steaming cup of coffee.

Appropriately overcompensating, Bobby concluded, which was oxy_moron-_ic, but also typically Dean. Again, Bobby had a feeling this was not the first time the younger man had dragged himself out of bed in a bid to look like he was fit for the rest of the day.

"You gonna sleep all day?" Dean grinned at him. His eyes were so damn clear that Bobby was tempted to believe he had just dreamed up last night's misery. But the smile shook at the corners as if the kid was losing his nerve, looking at Bobby expectantly, wanting him to join in on the charade. They weren't going to be talking about the night before, apparently.

_It goes away in the morning, I promise it goes away?_

_... he hadn't just been talking about the pain._

"How long you been up?" Bobby asked, scratching the back of his head.

"Not long," Dean said, hobbling over to Bobby's bed. He grabbed at walls and tables and cabinets; it was a long road and the coffee sloshed in the cup but somehow, Bobby's floors were safe from spillage. Rumsfeld was following Dean around attentively.

"Break anything?" Bobby asked, when Dean offered it to him.

"I know how to fricking operate your coffee machine."

"I meant you know," Bobby said as he took a sip; the kid had a good hand with the coffee, "Your neck, your other leg, an arm... anything you got left that isn't busted, going down my stairs?"

"I feel good today."

Bobby looked at him, sidelong, measuring.

"I do!" Dean insisted, "I get all stiff in the car and when I'm in bed, anytime I stay still too long. I took my morning pills, got a bit of exercise in... I'm good."

"No more stairs today," Bobby ordered.

Dean looked like he wanted to argue. He licked his lips and wrestled with himself. He finally just nodded.

"You sure you got your medicines this morning?" Bobby asked.

"Yes, yes," Dean rolled his eyes, "I took 'em. Otherwise I'd be dead from the coffee run. I took 'em."

"Good," Bobby said, approvingly, "Now the hard part."

"You're not thinking of helping _bathe_ me or something, are you?" Dean asked, wide-eyed, "'Cos--"

"I'm not fricking _suicidal_," Bobby said with a shrug, "I'm gonna have to look for something for you to do."

* * *

Bobby handed him a power tool, some screws, a metal handlebar from god knows where, some polish, and then deposited him on the cold tile of the upstairs bathroom.

"Make yourself a handlebar," the junkman ordered.

"You sure this is for me?" Dean smirked at him, grateful for the absorbing work, "Or for you in your old age?"

"Polish it good too," Bobby snapped, "And for god's sake, be careful with the power tool; tiles are a bitch to drill into."

"I think I can figure it out," Dean said with a sly grin.

"When that's sorted, then you can handle yourself taking a bath," Bobby said, triumphantly, "See? A reason for everything; it all works out."

"Maybe you could also ask the invalid to build you an elevator so you wouldn't need to haul me up the stairs," Dean said, sarcastically, "Build a ramp too, maybe a lift, an escalator, and other forms of inappropriate hard labor."

"What do you think of me, boy?" Bobby snapped, before giving him a wink, "That's for _tomorrow_."

* * *

Bobby did some repairs on an old Chevy at the yard, periodically checking on his patient/forced laborer every few hours. Dean whined about dying for a cool beer, and Bobby gave him water, crackers and his medicine instead. He pretended to mind, but did as he was told. Bobby cooked them a hearty lunch and fixed up a tray to bring up the stairs, humming absently to himself.

"You're awful quiet up there!" Bobby called out as he was going up the stairs, "I don't hear you working!"

He put the tray down on the floor just outside the bathroom and found Dean off the tiles and on his feet, already making good use of the newly-installed, shining metal handlebars. There was some blood on them; the kid must have nicked himself on something. He was standing by the sink, and the medicine cabinet was open in front of him.

"What the hell is all this?" Dean asked, his voice flat. The lightly-dripping, bloodied hand was forgotten as he stared at Bobby's little pharmacy. Rows and rows of orange prescription bottles stared back and mocked them both.

"They're yers," Bobby growled, shutting the mirrored cabinet, almost hitting the younger hunter's nose, "Got them from yer daddy's care package."

Dean turned to him, accusingly. "Yeah, and they're all probably Viagra, right? Jesus, Bobby. I saw your name on the damned things. Anything you wanna say? What is it, huh? And this shit-ass lying? You're scaring me here."

Bobby averted his eyes, "You know how old men are. There's a supplement for everything, and then there's a blood pressure thing, and one for the sugar and arthritis--"

"Bobby," Dean said, staring him down, "Look at me."

Dean could be so insistent, sometimes. His eyes burned through and through and through...

"What the hell is all this for?" Dean asked.

"You know how old men are," Bobby said, meeting his gaze, smiling sadly, "I'm dying, kid. When it's your time to go, it's just your time to go."

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **With Blood**

Summary:Bobby Singer was just a friend to a widower, not minding the occasional babysitting. But his devotion for the Winchester family truly began when he was struck by a terminal illness and saved only by a sacrifice from Dean. Pre-Series.

**Hi gang!**

Thanks to all who read, alerted, favorited and especially to all who reviewed the first chapter of _With Blood_. I'll be sending out more comprehensive review responses, but I figured I might be able to express my gratitude by early posting too! Anyway, thank you so so so so much, and hope you enjoy this chapter as well. C&C's are profoundly welcome; they make me work and post faster, certainly, haha. Thanks for taking the time to read, and 'til the next post!

" " "

**With Blood**

" " "

**2: Think Twice**

_2002_

" " "

Dean had known Bobby Singer so long and so well that he couldn't remember when they met and where and how. His life was compartmentalized thus: there was life while his mom was alive and there was life after. Bobby came in the 'after' part but that's about as much as Dean remembered. They met in the blur of those first few _days?months?years?_ and then somehow Bobby just made himself a part of the Winchesters somewhere in there. Dean did not really expect to remember, nor did he have any desire to; it's almost like being asked when he met Sam and what it was exactly like.

Still... the memory was stuck in his subconscious somewhere, and something happens once in awhile that makes him feel he's at the brink of remembering. For instance, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet as Bobby put a band-aid on his hand, that was inexplicably familiar.

"I got it," Dean said, half-hearted and justly ignored. Bobby's weathered hands enclosed his, were unsurprisingly gentle. He took to the band-aids intently, like a heart surgeon.

"I mean it's not like I'm gonna bleed out or anything," Dean murmured into the sickeningly thick empty space of that damned bathroom.

Bobby patted Dean's hand reassuringly the moment he was through. The older man straightened, and turned to walk out the door.

"Your lunch is right 'ere," he said gruffly, jerking his hand at the tray.

"Are we gonna talk about this?" Dean asked.

"We ever talk about things like this?" Bobby retorted.

Dean hesitated, "Maybe we ought to start like, right now."

Bobby shook his head, "I'll give you the long and the short of it, Dean. I'm doing everything I can to keep from croaking. I go to the doc's whenever I have to, I take my damn pills, I eat right – more or less – it's just... what it is, Dean."

Dean's mouth felt dry. He had a million questions, but could only voice the most important one, "How long have you got left?"

Bobby hesitated, looked like he was thinking of lying.

"How long?" Dean demanded.

"I have some stuff in the works," Bobby said finally, "One year... I got one year."

"Damn it, Bobby!" Dean retorted, "What the hell do you mean 'Maybe a year?' Like maybe a year if it works? Or a year if it doesn't? What the hell does--"

"Dean, can it, all right?" Bobby sighed, "Just... just let me be."

"I _can't_," Dean said plaintively, imploring, "How can I, man? Seriously? How can you think I can just let this go—"

"Mind yer own damn business that's how," Bobby snapped at him, eyes flaring, "You got no rights having your grubby paws sifting through my things. You're just some hunter's kid running amok in my house 'cos you got nowhere else to go. You got no place asking me anything."

Dean stared at him, breathless and hurting. He'd always liked Bobby, had always felt that the old man must've liked him a little too.

_You're just some hunter's kid running amok in my house 'cos you got nowhere else to go. You got no place asking me anything..._

"I'm- I'm sorry," he stammered, dumbfounded.

Something streaked across Bobby's eyes, something Dean didn't quite understand but didn't have the time to decipher as Bobby just turned his back and walked out the room double-time, a pace he knew the injured Dean did not have the capacity to match, "Just eat your lunch."

" " "

The light of the afternoon was oppressive, just pressing against his eyes as they slid into the room he was confined to. The damn leg was acting up again, and the pain was just bone-deep, a throbbing that ate at his strength and ebbed at his will to do anything. It left him breathless and sick, shaking and restless.

Dean had already taken his pill for the hour, wanted to chuck the whole bottle except he highly _doubted_ that dying would make things much better. Besides, the damn medicines made him nauseous, and finding the optimal balance between dulling the pain and bearable nausea from the pills was tricky. Too little and the pain was overwhelming. Too much and he started throwing up; his head hurt, his stomach cramped and churned, and the damn leg would still be throbbing on top of it all.

He tossed and turned on the bed, had the sneaking suspicion that the only position that could offer him any relief at this point is just being _dead_.

_Dead_...

_Bobby's dying_.

He tried not to think about that.

But how could he not?

_One year_...

One year was damned short. One year... god, that was nothing. One year ago, Sam was here.

_Sam_...

Dean wanted to call Sam. Sam would know what to do. Sam would have some of the answers. Sam was _great_ at being all chick and concerned. Sam... was not here. And this... this was unfortunately not Dean's secret to tell.

Dean desperately wanted to call his little brother. He wanted to call his dad. He wanted to call a psychic hotline. He wanted to call for Chinese food. He wanted to call a cop. He wanted to call... someone, anyone who could help because this kind of problem was not in his expertise, wasn't in his purview. Once upon a time, he'd have called Bobby, but then again, the problem was with him and _apparently_, he thought that this was none of Dean's business. Got that straight from the horse's mouth, after all.

Dean had always felt at home at the Singer Yard, even more at home with the old man who ran it. Bobby was like a father to him; knew how to push his buttons, knew what to say to assure him, make him laugh. Seeing him always lent Dean a kind of relief. Being around him always meant that Dean was safe, that they'd sort things out somehow. And in the extremely rare times that he let himself think about it, sometimes Dean even found that he was more comfortable with Bobby than his own father.

Apparently, the feeling was one-sided.

_You're just some hunter's kid running amok in my house 'cos you got nowhere else to go. You got no place asking me anything..._

It made his heart ache. That was damn low, struck at the right chords, no doubt about it. But then again, he was no stranger to the asymmetry of his love either, to caring for these idiots who didn't mind leaving him behind. Sam. His dad. Now Bobby too.

What the hell was new.

It hurt, but he'd survive it. He always had.

Making up his mind, he sat up from bed. The world spun but his mind was set. He rose to his feet, shaky hands blindly reaching for table and wall and any handhold that would bear his weight as he breathlessly fought his way to wherever Bobby was.

" " "

"Are you trying to kill yourself?!" Bobby bellowed at Dean as he came up to the junkman outside the house. Dean's entire body was trembling with exertion, overwhelmed by his pain and the effort that it was profoundly ill-equipped to handle. He leaned heavily against the rusted side of a hollowed-out, busted-up truck, dizzily reflecting that he knew _exactly_ how the damn thing felt.

Bobby stalked toward him murderously, gripping him by the shoulders, "Damn it, Dean!"

"I don't care," Dean gasped, gripping him back, "I don't care what you think about me butting into your goddamn business. You..." he grappled for words, found that the oppressive afternoon light was swimming with swirling clouds of black now, matching the thrumming hot-cold of his body, "You opened your house to my brother and me, to my dad – god knows why. I don't care that we're nothing to you but a bunch of strays. But _I_ care about what happens to you... I can't not."

"What?" Bobby asked, genuinely confused, adjusting his grip on Dean, "Jesus, you're shaking like a leaf, let's get you--"

Dean jerked away from him, pressed back against the busted truck harder, "I don't care that you don't care about us," Dean insisted, "But I give a shit what happens to you, and that means I got a right to ask, all right? I got a right..." the world turned on it's side, and the next thing he knew his arm was slung over Bobby's shoulder and they were out of the heat and the light of the afternoon, and headed inside the house.

"I didn't think it was possible," Bobby muttered under his breath, "But John raised a bastard crazier than he is."

"He's an overachiever," Dean mumbled.

Bobby barked out a disarmed laugh as he deposited Dean to sit on the living room sofa. He sat on his haunches in front of the younger hunter, and looked at him thoughtfully.

"What are we gonna do with you, huh?" Bobby asked him.

Dean looked away, now feeling profoundly embarrassed by the outburst. Could he blame that on the meds? The meds and the heat together? Could he blame Sam for infecting him with chick? Could he blame Bobby for springing him with the surprise illness? He wondered who else he could pin this on.

"I care," Bobby said, after a long moment. Dean felt red heat on his face. _This one's probably just from the sun_...

"I forget sometimes," Bobby said, endearment leaking off his voice, "But you're still just a kid. I didn't mean that crap. You caught me off-guard and I just said it to get you off my back. I'm sorry."

Dean looked at him again, "I'm twenty-three, dude."

"Yeah you are," Bobby said wryly.

"I don't wanna be here," Dean said, "Tiring you out, making things worse, making... making the... the time, you know, you know... shorter. You shoulda told dad. He wouldn't have hassled you with me, if he knew."

"Don't worry about it, Dean," Bobby said, "Right now, you're worse off than me. We just... we just gotta take care of each other."

"Sounds like a plan," Dean agreed.

" " "

Unfortunately for Dean, the two men differed in their definitions of '_taking care of each other_.' Bobby was bossy and entitled; he had all of the information he needed on Dean's condition and therefore always fell back on that for authority on the levels of physical exertion he could have, the food he could eat, the medication he should take and when. Dean on the other hand, knew nothing about Bobby's illness and the older hunter would gloss it over and just snap, "_Do I look like I'm dyin', boy?_", to which Dean would always say "_Hell no_."

All of Dean's mouthing got him nowhere in terms of acquiring information. Sam once told him that age-old dictum of the damn thing being a source of power, and maybe kid brother managed to teach him a thing or two too. And so he worked backwards from taking down the names of Bobby's medication, checking online and making phone calls when Bobby was away for his regular check-ups or to meet with a car parts supplier or a buyer. It was almost quick and almost easy, how he discovered that Bobby needed a new kidney.

" " "

"You're awful quiet," Bobby's voice broke into his thoughts as the two men sat down to dinner. The old television in the next room was running _I Love Lucy_.

Dean bought time by grinning through his full mouth.

"Leg bothering you?" Bobby asked.

"None more than the usual," Dean shrugged, "Hey, you know the docs told me I'm gonna be setting off airport alarms the rest of my life."

"Like you'd actually ride a plane," Bobby snorted, "John told me that one time he took you, he thought you were going to--"

"Shuddup," Dean said, waving at him in irritation.

"At least you don't have to keep making excuses for avoiding airports," Bobby teased, "You know, you'll never be part of that mile-high club with that phobia."

"But stewardesses like comforting people, don't they?" Dean pointed out, "Like all the women I get to bed who think they can 'fix' me."

"No one can fix you."

"All the women in the world are welcome to try," Dean grinned, before sighing, "I miss getting laid."

"I would practice on walking up the stairs first," Bobby said wryly, "And then I'd get more ambitious. Sex; I'd hate for you to kill yourself that way."

"It would be a great way to go," Dean said.

"As opposed to other ways, huh?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah," Dean said pointedly, before deciding to go right to where his thoughts have been running since he made the discovery. "So. You told me you had something in the works for this illness of yers. Did you mean you're on a transplant list?"

Bobby's brow quirked, but he look unsurprised. "Damn your father for teaching you to research on top of it all. But yeah, that's what I meant."

"How far along?"

"Let's put it this way," Bobby replied, "By the time I get it, this body part in an icebox will be more alive than me."

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"Some venom from a friend of ours," Bobby said, meaning a supernatural element, "It was killing me. The antidote was hell on the organs and I'm paying for it now, but it saved me then. Couldn't ask for any more, Dean, I'm on borrowed time already anyway. The antidote bought me a good few years."

"So the kidney is the only problem?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Bobby answered.

"Ever thought of getting something over at the black market?" Dean asked, "We got 'friends' there too."

"I don't play that way on something like this," Bobby said, "God knows from whom they grabbed it. It ain't right."

"I didn't mean just the stolen stuff," Dean said, "You know that scandal a couple years back? Poor folks selling their organs to seedy doctor dudes who used the parts for surgeries on rich people?"

"I don't play that way either," Bobby said again, "Geez, Dean."

"I'm just sayin'" Dean said, "Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do."

"No wonder you've been quiet," Bobby said, "These crazy things in your head."

Dean almost choked on his food; he had a few other ideas.

" " "

"Hey, Bobby," Dean said the next morning over breakfast, "You think you can drive me to the doc's?"

The man shot up from his seat in alarm, "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, I'm fine," Dean said quickly, "I just... there's something I gotta ask, that's all. I'm kind of... I'm kind of..." he tried to come up with a good excuse but apparently, all Bobby needed to know was that it had to have been bad if Dean Winchester was asking to be taken to a hospital. Whatever '_it_' was.

"I can go right now," Bobby said, grabbing his keys, "Emergency room?"

"No, no," Dean replied, "I just... I gotta clear up a few things with my doctor. It's been awhile since the surgeries and the rehab and everything, and I just got a few questions."

"Okay, okay," Bobby took him by the elbow, guiding him forward toward the door carefully, "Don't worry, don't worry. Whatever this is, they'll fix it."

Dean barked out a helpless laugh but let Bobby steer him along. "You're one in a million, man."

It wasn't very funny when he couldn't bully Bobby out during his consultation with his main physician though, a couple of hours later.

"Bobby, damn it!" Dean snapped, "I'll fill you in later, I promise. But you gotta get the hell out or I'm not gonna be able to talk about this."

The doctor, a small, graying, sharp-eyed woman, looked from one man to the other, stuck in a staring contest.

"Mr. Singer," she said, "I cannot take care of your nephew if I cannot find out what is wrong because he is uncomfortable speaking about this in your presence."

"Fine!" Bobby yelled, before his eyes softened, "You just... you just get yourself sorted, all right, kid?"

The office door closed behind Bobby, and Dean waited a few beats before turning to the doctor.

"Craggly old man, huh?" he smirked.

Dr. Carr looked at him wryly, "I'm older than he is. What can I do for you today, Dean? Are you still having trouble adjusting to the medication?"

"Um, actually," Dean began, "I got a different question, not about... not about the injury I had. I mean kind of, because I'm sure it's going to matter down the line... I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"That's all right," she spread her hands open in welcome, "Go on."

"My uncle's sick," Dean rambled, "He's on a transplant list for a kidney, but he might not be able to wait long enough for his number to come up. I uh... I've been reading about things and... and it's not your specialty, but I guess you'd have to work with whomever's gonna handle it, and how it's gonna affect me given that I just went under the knife...

"I've read about live donors," Dean exhaled, "And I uh... I wanna be one, for him."

" " "

Carr gave him a long, measuring stare. "Dean this is a great thing, what you're thinking of doing for someone you love. But I have to be honest with you, here. You just came from significant physical trauma. You almost died and you've been laid up for weeks now. You've barely healed. Going under the knife again on an operation like this is not something I would recommend."

"I mean, it's not like I can die from it, right?"

"Of course you can," she said, "All such operations carry a considerable amount of risk, and especially for you at this stage in your recovery. On top of all that, we have to determine what to do about your medication regimen. There's going to be some toggling and a considerable cutback on the heavy stuff and then god knows what will happen to you then."

"I don't care."

"I know," she sighed, apparently already familiar with her patient's general attitude about personal risk, "But maybe we're getting ahead of ourselves here, anyway. There are a lot of tests to see if you're fit to handle this and if you're going to match, and the likelihood is that you won't be either one."

"But I need to know I gave it a shot," Dean said, "Tests, huh?"

"I'm going to start working on this with a specialist and a coordinator," she said, making some notes, "I'll have my secretary call you as soon as we can schedule you for them. The point is first we have to figure out if your body can handle it, and then to see if you match."

"When should I start taking the new drugs or less of what I already have?" Dean asked, "I want this thing well on the road by the time all the tests come back."

"We'll keep things as is for now," she said, "I want to keep you on the best, most effective medication until it is absolutely necessary to stop."

"But it'll take time for me to dry out," Dean pointed out, "If the tests come out to show I can handle the surgery and we're a match and I only start out after that, then we'd have to wait again."

"Why hurt yourself if we're not even sure?" she asked.

"I'm sure," he insisted, and something in his gut told him he was right, "I wanna start cutting back right now."

"You're a stubborn mule," she sighed, "Why do you hire doctors when you can, _apparently_, cure yourself?"

He smiled a little but insisted, "I wanna start right now."

"Suit yourself," she said, grabbing his file and looking through it for adjustments she could make, "Giving you a little bit of pain-preview might give you a better idea of how things are going to be if you push through with this anyway. Might make you think twice."

"I won't change my mind," he said, "Oh, and you mind keeping this between us, for now? I'd rather he didn't know anything yet."

" " "

He met up with Bobby after passing by the hospital pharmacy to pick up his new pain medication. At his doctor's unshakable insistence, the short walk from her office to the pharmacy and to where Bobby Singer waited was too long for his optimal recuperation especially given his decision to cut back on drugs, and she required him to be chaperoned around by a burly orderly in a wheelchair. Dean agreed because he was sure he could charm his way out of it with any nurse Carr would task with pushing him around. However, Carr had worked with Dean long enough to know that she should assign her stubborn charmer of a patient to the largest and most humorless male orderly she could find. The man would not even stop at the corner to let Dean walk into Bobby's line of sight.

The older hunter was pacing like a caged animal, and his eyes practically popped out of his head at the sight of Dean.

"What the hell--"

"I'm fine," Dean assured him, raising a calming hand, "Just my doctor overreacting, and Frankenstein here takes his job a little too seriously."

The orderly jerked the seat to a stop and looked at Bobby with a flat expression, "He's all yours."

Bobby gripped at the handlebars before Dean could stop him, "Where are we going?"

Dean planted one foot to the ground, halting the wheelchair from moving forward, "I'm fine, I said!"

"Then what's with the hot wheels?"

"Went by the pharmacy for new meds, 's all," Dean said, pushing himself to his feet, "That walk woulda hit my daily quota. But I can go back to the car on my own, thanks."

"Boy, you have not been doing much walking lately," Bobby snapped, "Limping, crawling around like an old man--"

"You're the old man," Dean muttered, leading his distinctly _limping_ way toward the exit. Bobby slipped a hand underneath his left elbow, one he knew he needed and decided to pretend did not exist.

"New meds, you said," Bobby pointed out after a moment of silence as they walked.

"Yeah the last ones sucked ass," Dean replied breathlessly.

"Maybe I got the dosage wrong--"

"You did everything perfectly, Bobby," Dean assured him, "I just didn't like how the damn things worked. I've been walking on clouds, dude, can't think straight. And the damn body still hurt on top of it all. Hey, uh... speaking of that... you know I wouldn't ask if I had a choice, but..."

"Go on, kid," Bobby encouraged, "What?"

"The new shit is on test drive," Dean said, "They're gonna want to see me again in a few days, just to see if it's working out."

"Oh sure, I'll take ya," Bobby said at once, "The way you ask, you'd think you were asking for an arm and a leg or something."

" " "

The pain came as it usually did, in a quiet wave that reminded him that the last batch of medicines that he took have already run their course and that his body is ready for the next dosage.

Typically, he would take the medicines as prepared by Bobby, multi-colored pills on a tray with a nicely cool glass of water. Their effect wasn't immediate, but also came in a kind of warm glowing light, enveloping him, making time feel slower and the pain recede into the background.

This night, he took in the new medication instead of the old batch. It still came on a neat tray with Bobby's warning look and cool water glass, but the pills were in different colors, and he knew full well that the effect would be different too.

He settled into bed, eager for sleep that would take away his pain. He was nervous because he was not stupid and he understood what to expect. He willed himself to sleep, and wondered when the ceiling had turned from crackling paint to looking like flat beach sand.

Typically, waves of water crashed white-capped on sandy shores in the gentle movement that was the world's ocean. They rose and fell with tides and wind, part of the cycle of life. Once in awhile, the ground beneath the sea would shake, and the shores would suddenly empty of water, just... these reverse-waves being sucked into the sea, exposing sand, expanding the shore. The water would gather in a massive wave in the ocean, and then come charging back, large and strong and destructive.

_Tsunami_.

This night, the new medication worked like a two-foot dam against a twenty-five foot wave, crashing into him with unimaginable force.

His eyes snapped open, and he caught himself at an anguished half-cry, biting his lip and snapping his jaws shut.

" " "

What woke him this time was unmistakable, and Bobby's feet were already under him and running even before he was fully aware that he had heard Dean's cry.

"Dean?" he called out to the boy, whose eyes were clenched shut, his body taut and curled in on itself, "Dean?!"

"Leave me alone!" Dean growled at him, "Leave me the fuck alone... please."

"Dean--" the same hesitation Bobby felt that first night gnawed at him. Should he come closer, or just heed what the younger man was saying?

"It goes away in the morning," Dean said, and it sounded like a begging sob except he took a deep breath and said more firmly, "It goes away..."

"Should I call somebody--"

"Please, man," Dean begged, "I just... I gotta adjust, they said it's really like this, I just... I just gotta adjust or something."

"Okay," Bobby said, his mouth dry.

He did not know what else he could do; as before, he wanted to help but did not want to overstep his bounds. Dean was a grown man to begin with, and one who has had to learn to take care of himself... no matter how young he looked like with those wide eyes. He was self-sufficient, self-regulating, self-repairing, as he'd had to be with his admittedly transient father and now-absent brother. It was Dean's misery but it should be a source of pride too, Bobby felt. But strength always came with a price, and for Dean it was stubbornness, and a profound shame at that inevitable point when he really did need someone else in his life to help him. On top of all that, refusing help was also Dean's survival mechanism, as if he was steeling himself for the _next_ time this happens, knowing he could handle things himself _when_ he becomes alone again,_ when_ he becomes hurt again.

The analysis gave Bobby a small, sick feeling. Like a little voice inside him was screaming to help. But Dean was a grown man who could make his own decisions and Bobby respected that. Besides... maybe he didn't want Dean to dislike him for interfering, because God knew the stubborn Winchester could build up his walls if he felt he was being backed into a corner. The only person in the word who could shove help down Dean's throat without fear of repercussion was his father, and for all his caring, Bobby was still not that man.

"You know where I'll be," Bobby said quietly and he left, like he left the first night he came upon this exact scene.

" " "

Neither man got much sleep that night.

Bobby got up after hours of fruitless trying and quietly peeked into Dean's room. The younger hunter looked ashen, eyes closed and breathing deeply and slowly. His body had turned from tight as a spring to limp on the bed, and he looked so exhausted and drawn, wrung-out and spat out that Bobby started upon hearing him speak.

"You're making me uncomfortable," was an understatement, and only Dean's lips moved.

"You better?"

"I'm alive," Dean said, peeling one eye open, "See? I told you so."

"You look like you finally died, not gotten better," Bobby retorted, stepping into the room in an almost shy manner, unsure of being welcome.

"I'm better," Dean insisted, still unmoving.

Dean's cell phone started to ring, and Bobby jumped to the night table to answer it. He needn't have hurried, because Dean made no effort to move at all.

"Yeah, this is Dean Winchester," Bobby said, "Uh-huh. Hell yeah he he can go. This afternoon? But I can make it in an hour if-- okay." He hung up and looked at Dean determinedly, "That was your doctor, you knucklehead. I'm bringing you in right now, and we're gonna fix this."

" " "

After letting the older hunter settle him to a seated position on the exam table, Dean managed to again bully Bobby out of the room. Dr. Carr entered moments later, took one look at Dean, and then started preparing a syringe.

"Woah," Dean said as she stood by his arm, ready to plug him with something, "Not so fast there, doc."

"Have you had a chance to think about this more?" Carr asked him.

"Yes," Dean said through grit teeth as a ripple of sharp pain went through him again. He clutched at the edges of the bed when the room started spinning, "I'm not gonna change my mind."

"You look rough," she commented.

"This I can live with," Dean growled, "This is easy. But him dying? Especially when I could do something about it? That... I can't."

She hesitated with the syringe and set it aside on a table, but didn't put it completely away. "Listen Dean. Your heart is in the right place, I can tell. But he's not going to let you help him either if you look beat to hell."

"Let's get these tests done first," Dean declared, "And then you can shove whatever you want into me."

"There's going to be a whole bunch of them," she said, "And I'm getting as much in today as I possibly can, given that it is difficult for you to travel. You have to understand that your case will be far more risky given your recent surgery, and therefore our tests far more extensive. I was hard-pressed to find a team in the first place who's willing to have you on the table. You know what that means, right? It's not going to be easy, and there is a possibility that your system cannot take the trauma."

"I could die, I know," Dean said, "We've been over this."

"You shouldn't take this so lightly--"

"I'm don't," Dean told her gravely, pained eyes practically pinning her frozen, "I take this very seriously, and the worse the pain gets, doc, don't you think I understand better than anybody what this could cost me? I _know_, all right, I get it, I do. But I also get that I'm his best chance."

"There are changes on the transplant list all the time," she said meekly, "And we have great maintenance medicines and procedures now that could improve his chances of surviving longer."

"Let's just do the tests," Dean said, "And if you think I need more time to recover and he can afford to wait, then fine, all right? We'll wait as long as you want. But let's just get all the tests out of the way."

Carr sighed, "Fine. But anytime I feel that we should take things slower, I will. And no head-butting this time, Dean, I mean it. I know you want to help him, but despite all the stubborn rank you keep pulling on me, I _am_ your doctor and I will stop if this gets too much. You have to trust me Dean, because we cannot go any further if you don't. You have to trust that I want to help you as yourself, and that I want to help you help him. That means that if I stop or take things slowly, you will know that I wouldn't have done so unless I absolutely had to. If you can't trust that, then you have to find someone else who will take the lead on this and I am telling you right now, you are not going to find anybody."

Dean stared at her for a long, quiet moment. He didn't trust so easy and as a matter of fact, he barely trusted anybody at all. But Carr had been his doctor since he first emerged from surgery a month ago, had been his primary physician over the weeks of managing his pain and reclaiming his mobility. She knew him by his real name, which had been an indication to Dean of how badly he must have looked when his father brought him in, if John hadn't had the mind enough to use an alias. She was a good doctor but more than that, she appeared to have acquired an understanding of his quirks. He knew that a huge part of the reason why she indulged him in the first place was that understanding.

"Okay," he nodded, "You got it, doc."

" " "

Carr brought in a gorgeous leggy redhead named Jordana, who got Dean sitting up and grinning rakishly, thinking that things were starting to look up. There was a small hint of the south in her smoky voice that totally tempted him to start saying "_Yes ma'am_" to whatever thing she was saying, especially since she looked sexy-smart with wire-rimmed glasses perched on her elegant nose. Carr looked at him wryly and knowingly, and looked particularly amused when Jordana started talking about kidney functions and sexual habits and urine samples that immediately killed all the sexy out of the situation.

Dean answered all of the questions comprehensively, more honest that he'd ever been about the state of is health. If a part of him was going to Bobby, he wanted to be damn sure that the doctors were prepared for anything that might go wrong.

Carr and Jordana shuttled him off for this test and that, and he was so exhausted by all the moving around that he had drifted off, found himself manning a cot in a quiet room hours later, the sun setting outside the window and the orange rays framing the figure of Bobby as he stood with his back to Dean.

"You all right, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, feeling like his mouth was made of sandpaper.

"They wouldn't tell me anything," Bobby said, "Just gave you back to me unconscious. Worries an old man, you know. Worried me enough to call up yer daddy."

"What did he say?" Dean asked.

"Caught his machine," Bobby winced, "Told him I thought your meds with screwing around with you and it might be wise to come by, see what's going on."

"But he's all right, right?" Dean asked, urgently pushing up to his elbows, "I mean maybe something happened with that goddamn hunt--"

"He's fine," Bobby said, "I checked with some hunters in the area. They took care of that sucker all right, and they said yer dad said something about catching the scent of something else. I'm sure he's fine, Dean. You just... you know how he is. He gets a whiff of that thing with your mother and he just gets busy."

Dean grunted as he shifted in bed. Hell yeah, he knew, just as he and Bobby knew that John really was leaving him behind for an extended period of time.

"So are you good?" Bobby asked, "You feeling all right?"

"Didn't get much sleep last night," Dean said, "I guess I just drifted off."

"Doc said I can take ya home anytime you're ready," Bobby said.

_Take ya home_...

It was colloquial, really, and mentioned so inconsequentially. But it resonated, because Dean realized that the Yard was exactly that to him, a lot of the times. It was also yet another reminder that he was doing the right thing.

"I'm ready," he said.

" " "

Nights have been unkind to Dean Winchester in many ways.

His mother died in the deep of the night, things hid out there in the dark just waiting to nip at him, they were long when he was waiting for his father to get back from a hunt or a binge, they were lonely when his brother left and he was alone with his thoughts. They were hell when he was in pain.

He held his body tight, compressed, as if that evil thing bursting from beneath his skin would be squeezed dead. Eyes clenched, muscles taut, legs pulled up close. He trembled, feeling all at once hot and cold.

The nightly cramping was nauseating, always coming on a few hours after he fell asleep and the meds have gone out or his body had stiffened. Every night he wished for a sleep deep enough to avoid this pre-dawn nightmare, but the medicine eased his pain just for a few hours at a time.

This kind of pain – bone-deep, resonant, downright rich – tended to occupy his mind completely. He knew where he rested every part of his body, heard the thumping of his heart, felt sweat rolling down the side of his face or down his back, like a fingernail leaving a cool track on his skin. All he could think about was himself.

But he was hunter enough too, to know when he was being watched.

Besides, he had kind of come to expect Bobby to be standing by his doorway whenever he woke up in pain, staring at him worriedly. As sure as the pain would come, so would Bobby be standing by his door.

"Cripes, Dean," the older hunter said softly.

"I'm sorry I woke you again," Dean said, his voice alien and thin.

"Don't be sorry," Bobby said.

"G'back to sleep," Dean murmured,

He didn't feel the other hunter leave. On the contrary, Bobby even strolled up to his bed, which sank when he sat by the younger man's arm.

"Please just leave," Dean said, "It'll go away in the m--"

"It hasn't been gone in awhile," Bobby countered gently, "So you just sit back, and let me be here too, all right?"

"No," Dean insisted, "Bobby, come on man, I can't. Get the fuck away from me, please."

Bobby sighed, and then the weight vanished, and the air stirred coolly when he left. It was the first time Dean had thought of anything outside of his body since he woke. He was just beginning to regret Bobby's departure before the older hunter was back again, with a cold compress he pressed to Dean's head.

Dean growled incoherently in protest, but subsided when the other hunter's warm, calloused hand pressed against his shoulder and kept him still.

"Easy," Bobby murmured, and more cool compresses matched the warm tone, and _damn_ but it was starting to numb Dean's pain and draw his mind away from its destructive preoccupation with his insides. He whimpered longingly at the sensation, felt himself exhaustedly beginning to drift back to sleep.

"Sometimes you gotta just take help," Bobby said to him quietly, "'Cos sometimes, shit like this? It's gonna be around in the morning. I wish I'd had the mind to do this for you sooner, but like I told you... I forget sometimes that you're just a kid."

"Not a kid..." Dean murmured.

"How 'bout if you just say thanks instead?" Bobby asked wryly.

Dean buried it in a murmur and a contended sigh, but his eyes opened fractionally, and Bobby couldn't have missed it there.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **With Blood**

Summary:Bobby Singer was just a friend to a widower, not minding the occasional babysitting. But his devotion for the Winchester family truly began when he was struck by a terminal illness and saved only by a sacrifice from Dean. Pre-Series.

**Hi gang!**

Wow, the reception for this fic is really really great. Thank you for taking the time to read, alert, favorite and especially review to let me know what you think. I hope everything is coming together in a satisfactory manner for you in terms of how I depict the characters, which I am cautious about especially since the last two episodes of the series are showing a few new sides of Bobby in the hospital. I am almost done with this fic, and hope that the last part (a short chapter, and epilogue, my standard post-fic afterword and possibly a preview of my new project) will be up by next week :) Thanks again, and will be sending out more comprehensive review responses in the next few hours and days. You guys are the best and I sincerely hope you enjoy the latest installment of _With Blood_. As always, c&c's are welcome and received with much love, and 'il the next post!

" " "

**With Blood**

" " "

**3: Responsibilities**

_2002_

" " "

Dean Winchester slowly started to adjust to his knew pain management regimen, just as he had counted on, just as he knew he could. Or maybe it was because Bobby was there with him when the nights got rough, sometimes standing by the door and sometimes sitting by his arm on the bed.

The older hunter always was a quick study, and he knew when to move in and when to leave Dean alone, even when Dean didn't know it himself. Always with Dean, the instinct was to turn away the help, but Bobby was insistent and was always right.

"You're like Sam sometimes," Dean had groaned to him in half-hearted, resigned complaint one night that Bobby had imposed his help on the injured hunter again. Just as he knew when to step in and when to back out, Bobby used the opening Dean had brought upon himself to ask about the absent youngest Winchester.

"How long has he been gone?"

"Forever," Dean said before he could stop himself. He had pulled out the answer so easily, as if it's been at the tip of his tongue, the shallowest surface of his mind, for a long, long time.

"You still get to talk to him?" Bobby asked.

Dean hesitated. He didn't want to answer, because answering meant he had to think about things. But the ease by which the answers came to his head was scaring him, like the words were dying to get out.

"Nah," Dean replied, "We did a lot at the start though. And you know dad: he'd tell me to leave the kid alone and then he'd shut up and pretend not to notice, as long as I pretended to hide. It's stupid, but it works."

"What happened?"

"Sam just got busy over there," Dean said with a shrug, "I guess it just happens. Never thought it would but it could be so easy, couldn't it? To get into something and to just... forget. He's kind of like dad in that way. They get busy and they just forget."

_Forget me_, was the unmentionable conclusion to that.

"I'm sure he--"

"He _loves_ me?" Dean laughed in embarrassment. It was a funny, funny word, 'love.' It tasted both ridiculously ironic and sparingly precious in his mouth, "Yeah, yeah. I'm not saying he doesn't, god knows that little girl can give a shit about a housefly so I think I'm good. I have no issues with that. But that doesn't change the fact that he's gone and I'm still here and sometimes, people just forget to talk. Suddenly it's been months and then it's gonna be years and at the end of it all, maybe you'll still know each other and maybe you won't. You probably still give a damn about each other, but yeah... maybe you'll still know each other and maybe you won't."

"Fair enough," Bobby said quietly, "You mad at him?"

"Nah," Dean said uneasily, "Too much trouble to get mad and too tiring to stay mad. Besides, I guess I get busy sometimes too."

"You ever think about leavin'?" Bobby asked.

The pain from his hunting injury was eating him from the inside-out, they were talking about the brother who had abandoned him for greener pastures and _damn_ but of course he'd thought about it too. "Dad needs me," Dean said simply, except it never was. The simplicity was only because it sounded so empty sometimes, mildly deluded, because god knows where the hell his dad was even at the moment.

The days and the nights melded together, like those weirdly pretty scrawls that came out whenever Dean gave a then-kiddie Sam a bunch of old crayons to amuse himself with and the kid went nuts over the damn things. Sometimes he and Bobby talked about Sam, sometimes they talked about cars, sometimes they talked about Bobby's wife's kitchen or her linens, or her cooking (never her directly, because Dean could understand full well that she had been his life). Dean began to reacquaint himself with the long-missed feeling of comfortable, familiar boredom. Just days on the porch reading and talking about stupid things and not-so-stupid things. Researching and talking shop, networking with other hunters about who can do this job or that, trying to get in touch with his father to make sure he was all right and, in failing, checking with other hunters to see what they knew.

There was that feeling again, of probably having done this in childhood: sitting on the porch, looking at Bobby expectantly as he made phone calls, looking for his father.

"I got a guy in DC who swears up and down that Johnny's okay," Bobby told him, "Your father's fine, Dean." Other days it was Jersey, other days Oregon, or Vegas or wherever. Maybe some of those days didn't happen this time around but years ago, when he was a kid being assured by Bobby that everything was all right. Either way, his father was okay, and so Dean was too.

The days shifted to a sudden stop when time finally caught up to them: Dean woke up late one morning, to the sound of a frantically barking Rumsfeld. The sun was high up in the sky, and Dean got up as quickly as he could, still recovering from the previous night's usual misery.

"Bobby?!" he called out, the dogs barking panicking him a little as he hauled himself out of bed and limped heavily toward the halls. The dog was outside Bobby's door, scratching at it. The dog turned to Dean with an uncannily human expression of relief.

"Hey man!" Dean twisted the knob urgently, "You okay in there?"

"Dean," the muffled voice came from within, "I don't suppose you can drive with that bum leg of yers?"

"What?" Dean asked, as he opened the door fully. His heart slammed in his chest at the sight of the older hunter sitting on the floor next to his bed, as if he tried to stand and get up but landed there instead. His face was pale, and the arms that were braced on the floor and the bed were shaking as he tried to raise himself up.

Dean practically jumped toward him, but the leg complained and the dog beat him to Bobby's side. Dean hissed and just dropped to his one functional knee beside Bobby on the floor, the casted leg stretched out behind him.

"Take it easy!" Bobby barked at him, "Jesus, Dean, are you trying to kill y--"

"I'm fine," Dean insisted, "Bobby, what the hell?"

"Guess you aren't up for a drive," Bobby grunted, attempting to rise again before resignedly sinking to his rump and just patting his dog's head to calm him down some, "Ya think you can call me an ambulance?"

" " "

The seat was killing him.

Killing him slowly, like some medieval torture device, determined to get the very best out of you just before it took it all. It was a little like a terminal disease, wasn't it? Sitting on this damn chair, getting the life sucked out of you.

The midday sun was streaming into the windows of the hospital room where Dean sat with Bobby, who had been asleep pretty much since they brought him in and hooked him up to this machine or that, with this medication or that. It all went by in a panicked blur to Dean's eye, but from what he could figure, the kidneys conking out meant a whole lot of other imbalances: they kept Bobby in for anemia, arrhythmia, fatigue, malaise, nausea... they could have just hit his head with a medical book and it would have had the same effect. Either way, it was looking abundantly clear that as hardy as Bobby was, he was also running out of time. The days can run long and boring, and Dean often had to rely on Bobby for mobility because of his injury, but Dean was getting better and Bobby getting worse, and he wasn't allowed to forget about that.

Dean sighed. He sat in the waiting room for hours before moving to Bobby's room after the older hunter was settled in. His leg was beginning to bitch at him with vengeance, and he knew he was in trouble, what with him missing this morning's dosage and forgetting to bring his pain medicine with him when he rode in the ambulance with Bobby.

He grunted in discomfort, pressed his hands around his casted limb. He rocked himself back and forth; it was inexplicably comforting.

He jumped in surprise when a cell phone started to ring. He had absolutely nothing else with him but Bobby's phone, which he had snatched up from the older hunter's night stand to call for an ambulance. The only reason why he got to bring it was because it was stuck to his panic-stiffened fingers when the EMTs came. It just felt so wrong and so petrifying, seeing Bobby weak. He recognized the feeling, which was how it felt whenever his dad was injured; it was the sudden shift of the world's weight from wherever it was and onto Dean, and he had to stagger a little bit each time before he could regain his balance. He never felt like this, whenever he had to look after Sam. It was because Sam was a consistent responsibility that never _ever_ rested or shifted. It was just always Dean's, and most of the time, it was never really very heavy. As a matter of fact, now that the weight was gone, his back felt bare and cold.

He saw his father's name on the screen of Bobby's phone. He answered the call right away: "Dad? You all right?"

John sounded genuinely surprised, "Me? Bobby said you were kind of rough with the pain meds, Dean-o."

Dean's face pinched to a helpless frown. His father sounded strange, sounded a little bit light, a little bit... _happy_?

"Are you all right?" Dean asked again, carefully.

"I'm fine," John replied, "Wrapped up that hunt, got caught in... something else. Don't worry about it. Are you all right?"

"Yes," Dean snapped, "I mean no, I'm worried. We don't hear from you for days and--"

"Mind the tone, Dean," John warned him, "You know how it goes."

What had he told Bobby? _They just forget..._

Dean closed his eyes as pain rippled up his limb. His body started shaking. He bit at his lip to keep from whimpering, "You comin' by soon?"

Dean glanced at Bobby, who was still out like a light. He was dying to tell his dad that the other hunter was very sick, but knew that it was not his story to tell; Bobby would be pissed as hell. And besides, Bobby had a right to how he wanted to keep things private. But he'd tell his father his plans about donating an organ and how it would keep him rooted to this place for a little while if he had to. Today magnified how much Bobby needed this procedure done, and if he had to sit out a bunch of hunts and stay here a good while to do this, then he would.

"Are you okay?" John asked, side-stepping the situation enough for Dean to deduce the answer to '_Are you coming by soon_' without requiring him to say it.

Dean was pissed for a moment, before he sighed in resignation, "Yes sir, I'm fine. The meds were just dicking me around a little. I'll live."

"Is Bobby there?"

"Why?" Dean asked evasively, "So you can check if I'm lying? Please, dad. Give a guy a break here. I'm fine, I said."

"Are you--"

"I'm sure," Dean promised him, "Now can you please tell me where you are and what you're doing? This is driving me nuts, having to keep looking for you. I don't know if I should be sitting put or -"

"I'm up in Minnesota," John said, "Got a few things to take care of. I'll be here for awhile."

"Hunting what?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, Dean," John said, "I'm safe. But I might be incommunicado once in awhile. I'm fine, I'm always fine. Just get better, and then we can get back on the road."

"Yes sir," Dean said quietly, "Be careful out there."

"Don't give Bobby any headaches now," John said.

Dean hung up the phone wearily; it was assurance enough that his dad was not lying dead somewhere, and it was also assurance that Dean would have a little more time to sort out the things he had to do for his donation. He clutched at the phone in his hand and flipped it in his fingers in an effort to distract himself from the pain coming from his leg. He stared at the phone, at the shaking hand that juggled it. As a distraction, the activity was piss-poor ineffective.

The depth of the pain was really something else, how it felt like it was coming from the very core of the bone, expanding outward. It alternated between sharp and blinding, sending spots in his eyes, to deep and dull-throbbing that made him nauseous. He let go of the phone, let it clatter to the floor as he gripped at his leg tighter with both hands. He grunted in pain, then pressed his lips together to keep from making any other sound. He hasn't been without medication like this in a long time.

He shivered in the cool, crisp air of the room. He felt sick and weak, but he doubted that throwing up would help matters any. Stifling a moan, he used the handles on the chair to lower himself to the ground, and he crawled toward the phone he had dropped.

Dean dialed the number to Dr. Carr's office. He was patched through to her by the secretary very quickly, and Dean partly-attributed this to that fact that Dean made an effort to flirt with her once in awhile. It could also be because his voice sounded tight and strained, even to his own ear.

"Dean," Dr. Carr greeted him, "I was just going to call you."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, momentarily distracted from his pain by the prospect of news on the transplant, "You got the tests back?"

"Tell me what you're calling about first," Dr. Carr told him, "You sound bad."

"But--"

"Dean," she told him in a warning tone, "Go first."

"Um..." Dean hesitated, "I'm at the hospital, with my uncle. It's Sackrey General, not too far from yours. Had to bring him in an ambulance."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she told him sincerely.

"I've been here a couple of hours," Dean explained, stifling a gasp, "And all my meds are in the house, my wallet too. I forgot to bring my shit in the rush. You think you can fax the pharmacy here my scrip or something? And my payment info too?"

"That would be wise," she said and paused, as if she was checking her watch, "This was reckless, Dean. I'm sure you're slowly getting more and more miserable over there. I'll call up the pharmacy; we know a good bunch of people from that hospital, I'll take care of it. Someone will bring your meds to you in your uncle's room in the next few minutes. Hang in there."

"Thanks doc," Dean said gratefully, "Now what were you gonna tell me?"

" " "

The test results finally came through from his doctor: he was in decent shape as far as they could tell, and based on initial information, could be a good match to Bobby. They needed more samples and greater coordination from both donor and recipient now, and it was high-time to start talking to Bobby about what needed to be done.

" " "

A dosage of the pain pills kept Dean running until the end of the day. He sweet-talked himself into both staying until Bobby woke up even at the end of visiting hours, and he also managed to hitch a ride with a nurse who lived near Bobby's. He needed the time to think about what to say, he needed to freshen up and grab a few of Bobby's things, he needed to feed the dog, and he needed his pills and his wallet for when he returned to the hospital in the morning. Besides, she was a cute little thing and she smelled so good assisting him into the house...

_Nightingales_, he decided blissfully, _There is a God_.

But Bobby had been right when he teased Dean about the physical rigors of sex; she helped him to bed and he was so exhausted from the day's excursions that he about fell asleep right away. The last memories he had of the night was her prettily disappointed pout, and her offer to pass by in the morning to pick him up since she was also on the way to work. He hoped he said yes; it would be one thing out of the way, out of the way of the larger things he had to accomplish tomorrow.

" " "

Dean cleared his throat as he came upon Bobby eating his breakfast. "Hey man. Good to see you up and around."

"Yeah," Bobby grinned, waving at his pasty-looking food, "You hungry?"

Dean blanched at the sight, "Ew."

"This shit is supposed to be good for me," Bobby said glumly.

Dean pasted on a smile, "Well in that case, man, it looks great."

Bobby just snorted at him.

"Um... hey Bobby?" Dean hesitated as he limped toward the bed, "We need to talk."

"Geez, Dean," he said, "You look like you're about to ask me to the prom or something."

Dean didn't bite, instead sat heavily against the detestable seat next to Bobby's bed. The night before had been rough: a lot of pain because Bobby's emergency caused a disruption in his medication schedule, and exacerbated by his having tried to move around so much during the day.

"You okay?" Bobby asked.

Dean wondered long and hard on how to go about this. Initially, he debated just being a secret donor; tell Bobby he was skipping town and then the old man would ideally never know it was Dean's kidney inside him. But keeping things a secret from one of the greatest researchers in the hunting community would be futile; Dean knew that as a hunter, Bobby would make sure that kidney came from a spirit at peace or was clean and safe, so he would have to know where it came from. He'd find out about Dean in a heartbeat. Besides, considering their surgeries were going to be closely coordinated, and that Dean had no one else but Bobby helping him move around right now, it was impossible not to involve or inform him. At this point, Dean only hoped to rely on Bobby's pragmatism, and so decided the straightforward would be the best way to handle this.

"I have really good news," Dean said.

"Yeah?" Bobby asked skeptically, "Then why the hell do you look like you killed my dog?"

"'Cos it might piss you off," Dean said, "But in the end you'll see it's just really awesome."

Bobby chuckled , "Now you're really making me nervous here, kid. What the hell is going on?"

"I got you a kidney." _Like ripping out a band-aid_.

Bobby's eyes popped out of his head, "What?! Whose was it?"

"I bought it from someone who really needed the money--"

"I could _throttle_ you."

Dean laughed nervously, "Actually I'm just kidding."

Bobby blinked at him, his face a mixture of indignation over the terrible joke, amazement at the boy's poor judgment, residual anger, disbelief-

"I mean I got you a kidney," Dean rambled on, "Just not someone else's. I mean, in the sense that-- mine. It's mine."

"What?"

"I wanna give you one of mine," Dean said with determination and resolve, unlike his earlier shyness and unease, "I wanna give you one of mine."

"_Damn it_, Dean."

" " "

Bobby was speechless.

He knew about live organ donation, but he had no relatives to ask help from and no friends that he wanted to burden. If he could have kept his illness to himself for as long as he lived, he wouldn't have minded. But sitting here looking slightly-ill but hardy and determined was Dean, his eyes blazing commitment and generosity, promising Bobby a chance, offering him_ life_.

Bobby trembled, unable to describe how he felt. Hope, certainly. Shame because he wanted to take, _take_, _take_ this and not ever let it go. Guilt because he had a sudden realization that this is one of the reasons why Dean has been going to the hospital, why he's been in pain. Anger because he also realized that things were already in motion and Dean hadn't asked him at all. Fear because while he honest-to-god didn't want to die from organ failure, he also did not want to die at the hands of John Winchester, who would have his head if he knew about all this. Gratitude because Dean's offer made Bobby feel that he had a place in the kid's life that was rare and treasured. Love because... love too, he supposed, just because that had always been there.

"Say something," Dean said suddenly, "Come on, man."

"No," Bobby said, mouth dry.

"No like you don't wanna say anything?"

"No like I don't want this from you," Bobby said, "I don't want this from you, Dean. You can't do this--"

"Ah but I can!" Dean cried out triumphantly, "I knew you'd say that. My doc says I can handle it. Think of a different excuse."

"Your father will kill me."

"He might," Dean said with a wicked grin, "But he'll get over it. Say what you will about my dad, man, but he understands debts, and he understands his friends."

"But he hates disruptions in the hunt more," Bobby pointed out, "Which includes anything that will keep you off your feet. You read about it, right? How long this'll make you weak? Three weeks, Dean, something like that."

"I'm laid up 'cos of this leg anyway," Dean argued, "Might as well do a good deed. And then when the cast's off and I've healed from the surgery, I'll be fine. People can live active lives with one kidney."

"If you get hurt in the future," Bobby said, "Giving this up could cost 'ya if you damage what's left."

"If I wanted to avoid danger," Dean replied, "I'd be teaching a yoga class or something. Anyone can get hurt at any day, man. Even crossing the street."

"I don't want it."

"Why?" Dean challenged, "Why the hell not?"

_Why not_, Bobby asked himself, _Why the hell not_... it certainly felt like he was taking too much from Dean, and he didn't have that in him, that much courage to have that kind of gratitude for someone. He didn't have the courage to owe a debt that large. He never liked debts, never liked relying on other people, never liked accepting things from them. It was one of the reasons he was endeared to Dean, he realized. They were both givers, and they both held that to a certain dignity. There was pride to giving, to protecting, to saving. There was a heroism to it, a kind of lonely glory. It was its own selfishness, in that paradoxical way. Consequently, there was certain shame to being needy, to being weak, to being helped.

"Let me help you," Dean said quietly, "Sometimes you gotta just take help, right? You're the one who said that. I wanna do this. I've thought about it long and hard, I know the risks, I know what all of it means, I know how it can hurt, all right? I know. But I wanna do this. You gotta just let me."

"Dean..." Bobby's voice trembled. He looked away. He felt so, so ashamed. That he was more ashamed than grateful bothered him a little, but it was how it was.

"I can't..." he stammered, "I can never repay you for something like this. And why you'd do it is beyond me. We ain't even family."

"Family doesn't end with blood," Dean told him, fire just _burning_ in his eyes before he lightened both gaze and tone, "Think about it this way.. if a guy offers, maybe it's already been pre-paid. Like I said – you were good to my dad when he had nobody, you're good to him when he'd being a dick. You're good to my brother and me, you're even good to Sam when he's being bitchy. And you never ask for anything back. Help me pay up my debts, man. It'll make me feel a whole lot better, especially the next time around that I come bothering you."

Bobby wasn't in the mood to joke.

"I don't wanna die," Bobby told him plainly, and it was the most honest he'd been about this disease. All this time, he'd been holding onto the poor comfort that every bastard had to kick the bucket in someway someday anyway, and the hope that maybe he'd get to see his wife again in death. But the truth was that now faced with life and hope making other choices possible, he honestly didn't want to die.

"I don't know what's out there," he went on, "And what little we know ain't pretty. I'm shit-scared, Dean. I wish I was a better man, I honest-to-god wish I was man enough to tell you no. But how could I?"

"That's right," Dean told him quietly, "You can't. And there's nothing wrong with that." He smiled in an effort to lighten the mood, "You wanna live, and it's not gonna hurt me to help you, and you're gonna be staying around and helping a lot of people – including me. Nothing generous about this, old man. And you know what else? The moment my kidney's working inside The Great Bobby Singer, everything you do from that point on is gonna be _my_ good karma."

"Am I gonna be hearing this bullcrap for the rest of my life?" Bobby asked him wryly.

"Maybe," Dean said with a shrug, "Or maybe I'll just keep asking you for favors, from time to time. Like _The Godfather_. The more I think about it, this live donor thing is sounding better and better. I wonder which other parts I can give up."

"More of you to go around," Bobby winced, "That's just great."

" " "

The two men did some tests relating to the transplant while they were in the hospital, and Dean was given an even more meager set of pain pills before they checked Bobby out and went home a few days later.

The night they got home, as with every night, Dean's pains amplified. It was the first nightly-pain-spell after Bobby realized that Dean was cutting back on the meds in preparation for donating a kidney for him.

Bobby knew full well that Dean was awake in the room next door. It was sometime between night and dawn, hours since they said good night. Bobby knew he was awake because he knew from experience that it was about time the pain would hit, and once in awhile if he strained hard enough, he'd hear the even, controlled breaths sporadically broken by a quiet whimper.

If this were any other night, he would be near Dean in a heartbeat. But it wasn't. He didn't know if he had the guts to go in there and watch the younger man suffer and know that it was for him.

He rubbed his hands wearily over his face. He wished fervently that he was a better man, that he could just up and say no to Dean's generous offer. But there's no telling a man in the desert that it's selfish to be thirsty. He just was simply not in a position to say _No thank you_.

_So what position are you in_? Bobby asked himself.

He sat up in bed and dragged himself to his feet. He might not be man enough to say no to Dean, but he was definitely in a position to face his responsibilities and help Dean weather the pain he was suffering for Bobby's sake.

He walked to Dean's room, found him curled up in the usual fashion. But this time around, he kept burrowing his head into his pillow like he wanted to vanish. The room was ghosted by his long, low moans, and he was shaking so hard that the bed itself was trembling, one of the unequal legs making a a frustrated rhythm of _taptaptaptaptaptaptap_ against the wooden floorboards.

Bobby ran to do as he always did: covered Dean in cold compresses. He even tried massaging the tension out of the younger man's shoulders, rubbed reassuringly at his back. But nothing was helping, and since he came in, Dean hasn't even acknowledged that he was there. Feeling helpless, Bobby ran out of the room and gave Dr. Carr a call.

He muttered "Come on, come on, come on..." as the doctor's phone rang and rang. Finally, the doctor picked up, and her voice sounded breathy with sleep.

"Hello?"

"He's in a bad way," Bobby blurted out right away, "Shaking like a leaf and he ain't moving or talking or-"

"We cut back on his medication further in preparation for the procedure, Mr. Singer," Dr. Carr explained, quickly realizing who she was talking to, "These are reactions we can expect. These are reactions Dean himself knows about."

"But--"

"Is he having trouble breathing?" she asked, "Is he running a fever? Is he ill? Are there disruptions in consciousness? These are signs that you should look out for in considering bringing him in to the ER. Because if he is simply in pain--"

"Simply?!"

"I use it as a quantitative description," she said, "I know this is hellish, but it is not life-threatening."

"What?" Bobby growled, "He's just supposed to bear it?"

I'm_ just supposed to bear watching him bear it_?

"Yes," she sighed, "Not unless you want to up his dosage. But that will be a setback from our timelines, especially since him returning to them tonight means we have to re-evaluate how long we'd have to keep him on them."

"Screw the timelines," Bobby snapped, "What do I give him?"

The doctor gave him quick instructions, and Bobby hung up and hurriedly prepared to do as instructed. In minutes, he had in hand two magical blue pills that would take Dean's problems away.

"Dean," he called to the younger man, shaking him by the shoulders, "Hey, come on."

Dean's head shook left to right, clearly indicating he didn't want to be bothered.

"Dean, come on!" Bobby said more forcefully, and this time Dean did turn to face him. Green eyes opened to slits, and they were hazed in pain but very much aware of what was going on around him. He stared at Bobby.

"I called your doctor," the older man lied, "She said to give you your meds, 'cos this ain't right. I'm helping you sit up, all right?" He didn't wait for a response, just manhandled Dean to lean against the headboard. Dean's face scrunched in pain and he cried out, but let himself be moved. He ended up slumped against the headboard, breathing in wheezing pants. He closed his eyes to recover himself.

"Okay, good," Bobby said, "Now the pills. You think you can take in water?"

Dean's eyes opened up again, and settled on Bobby's face. _Weighing_, Bobby realized, because he could feel that there was something not quite right with this picture.

"She said," Dean gasped, "She said I _should_?"

"Yes," Bobby said quickly, not missing a beat, hoping Dean would take that as a sign that he was being truthful.

"Oh you son-of-a-bitch," Dean growled. Anger was always a good place to borrow strength from, and his eyes cleared enough for him to glare at the older man.

"Dean..." Bobby said helplessly, "This ain't right, what you're doing to yourself."

Dean slid back down in bed, and he looked like grease going down the side of a car, all gooey and heavy. He turned his back on Bobby and burrowed his face into the pillows again.

"Dean, please..." Bobby found himself begging, "I can't... I can't just let you do this. This ain't right..."

"Enough of that already, all right?" Dean bellowed at him, turning to face him again. He was screaming unhealthily, but there was something about the screaming that was loosening him up, easing his pain a little, "I've made up my goddamn mind. I'm not changing it, all right? What I need from you now is to just take it, okay? You need my help, so the fuck what? Come on, man!"

He ended the tirade with an inarticulate, frustrated cry, and then he buried his face into the pillows again.

Bobby's heart beat wildly in his chest. What could he do, short of stuffing the pills into the kid's mouth and forcing him to swallow?

Dean cried out again, and buried his face in deeper. He needed to scream, Bobby realized, not keep all of this pain inside. It was why being pissed at Bobby was lending him fire. He needed to get this out. Bobby rested a warm palm over Dean's back.

"You let it out, Dean," he said quietly, and the younger hunter shook his head in a negative vigorously.

"You let it out," Bobby insisted fervently, "No one else will hear. No one but me, and I won't care. It's just you and me here, Dean, no one else will hear--"

Dean cut off his talking with a loud, primal scream. He shook and he tensed and he clutched at his leg, clutched at the sheets, and cried his heart out. The sound shook the empty night, shook Bobby's nerves. Dean screamed again, and again, and then when he was exhausted and when his body finally started to relax, he sank limply against the bed, releasing the limb, releasing the sheets, breath hitching as he sobbed a little in relief.

"You're all right," Bobby soothed, and this time he was the one clutching at Dean's collar, "I got ya, you're all right..."

" " "

Bobby went back to his room after Dean fell asleep.

His entire body was shaking, and he felt the insatiable need to put an end to all of this. But how could he? How could he say no? He was in absolutely no position to say no...

He grabbed his cellphone, dialed John Winchester's number.

He might not be man enough to say no to Dean, but he was definitely man enough to want someone to pull the plug on all of this.

Bobby prayed and un-prayed that he would catch the man himself, instead of his machine.

_Leave a message_, the gruff voice said and before Bobby could gather his thoughts and understand what he felt about that, the beep sounded.

"John, it's me," Bobby said, voice grave and alien, "You gotta come see Dean, all right? He's really in a bad way. You gotta come see Dean."

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **With Blood**

Summary:Bobby Singer was just a friend to a widower, not minding the occasional babysitting. But his devotion for the Winchester family truly began when he was struck by a terminal illness and saved only by a sacrifice from Dean. Pre-Series.

**Hey guys!**

Watch out, a double post coming up :) Thanks so much to all who read, alert-ed, favorit-ed and especially to all who reviewed _With Blood_ so far. I will be putting up notes and thanks more comprehensively in my PM replies and in my upcoming Afterword, which will be posted along with an Epilogue that follows this chapter and officially ending the fic. In the meantime, lots of love to everyone, and the final chapter of _With Blood_:

" " "

**With Blood**

" " "

**4: The Other Side**

_2002_

" " "

The days and the nights turned slowly kinder, at least for Dean.

After the hard first-night adjustment, Dean got better and better, and as if there was just a steady supply of good health in the world, Bobby started getting weaker by contrast.

Dean and Bobby repeatedly met with their transplant team, which comprised of two surgeons, a general physician assigned to each man, a transplant coordinator, a social worker, a case manager from Bobby's insurance company, a dietitian, and some consultants that Carr brought in relating to Dean's previous surgery. They looked like an army, and Bobby remembered laughing when Dean said that the days took on a blurry _"alien-abduction-esque_" quality of weird people prodding at them and asking questions and ordering them around. The two men attended information sessions, even ate coffee and donuts and pretended to listen during support group meetings.

The one time Bobby had any doubt at all that they would pass the transplant-donor requirements with flying colors was when they brought in a shrink for Dean to make sure he was well-informed and exercising the proper judgment. He'd always said the boy was nine kinds of crazy and god knows what the shrink would end up seeing. Dean came out of the meeting room with a huge grin, proclaiming to Bobby as if he it was his greatest achievement that "_See? I'm not crazy_." Bobby wasn't so convinced; the shrink was a mousy old-maid type whom Dean, in his most predatory and single-minded incarnation, could have eaten for breakfast.

The transplant was shaping up, and their doctors ran a tight ship. The team did additional tests to assure a match, discussed timelines when the match was confirmed, and then toggled with the proper pre-op drugs and diet some more. Soon, Bobby and Dean found themselves left with just a good week before the transplant operation, which they spent doing a miscellany of things.

The dietitian's strict orders about their food intake and the importance of fresh, home-cooked meals had them going to the market every few days, and also had them working together in the kitchen. Dean bought Bobby an apron at the dollar store - "_Kiss the Cook--_"and he thought he was clever until Bobby gave him one that said "_Nice Grill_." It was all so comfortably ordinary.

Sometimes he and Dean talked about Sam, sometimes they talked about cars, sometimes they talked about his wife's kitchen or her linens, or her cooking. It was just him and Dean on the porch reading and talking about stupid things and not-so-stupid things. Researching and talking shop, networking with other hunters about who can do this job or that. And for Bobby, every night after Dean fell asleep, he would always leave John Winchester a message – _Wherever the hell you are, get here_ – but he received no response at all.

The days and the nights melded together sometimes nicely, sometimes chaotically, like those weirdly pretty scrawls that came out whenever Bobby gave a then-kiddie Dean a bunch of old crayons to amuse himself with and he went nuts over the damn things: market, hit-or-miss-cooking, talking, working, _where the hell are you John_, et cetera, until they shifted to a sudden stop when the day finally came that they had to check themselves into the hospital for the surgery.

They were checking in at night, and the two men found themselves out in the yard a few hours before they had to leave, dusting themselves off after toggling with an old truck. They sat on the hood, Rumsfeld mushed and disfigured between them, with the chunky length of the dog's body stretched along the glass of the windshield.

"I think your dog has a problem," Dean mused, shifting his weight to make more room for the dog.

"Yeah?"

"I think he thinks he's still small," Dean said, playing with the complacent dog's ears, "Yo, Rummy. When's that brain gonna catch up to your body's maturity level? Geez, you're like Sam at age 13. Fricking monster."

"Got me a housesitter," Bobby said, "She'll take care of this useless dog too."

"Rumsfeld has a babysitter?" Dean asked.

"Yup," Bobby replied, "The mutt will be okay while we're away."

"Good," Dean said.

The sun was setting and Bobby was dying for a beer, except they've already reached the point where they were not supposed to eat anything until after the surgery.

"Dean..." Bobby hesitated, "You can still change your mind."

"Not a chance," Dean said lightly, but he meant it full-tilt. His eyes were clear and calm, looking at peace and almost even looking happy. "Glad to be doing this," he added quietly, hiding it in a shifting grunt. For both their sakes, Bobby pretended not to hear it.

"You ah..." Bobby asked, "You wanna call up Sam?"

Dean pursed his lips in thought, and it really was a damn good question. "And tell him what?" Dean asked, and well... that was an even better one.

"This is a serious procedure," Bobby said, "There might be some stuff you wanna say. There might be some stuff he would wanna say. He might even stop you where I can't."

"He won't," Dean said with certainty, "He'll understand why I'm doing it and I'd bet my ears he'd do the same for you if he knew. But I don't want him coming over – which he would if he knew – and I don't like lying to him – which I'd have to, if I called."

"Ain't nothing wrong with him coming over," Bobby pointed out.

"Nah," Dean said, "I don't wanna bother him."

"How about yer dad?" Bobby asked.

Dean turned pensive again, looked out into some distance Bobby couldn't see, "He's busy or something. I just hope he's okay."

"Everyone we talk to says they're damn sure he's all right," Bobby said, "It's like monitoring sightings of bigfoot."

"Hunters you trust, right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Bobby replied, "You know, Dean... we can blow this surgery and go looking for him instead."

"Still trying to talk me out of this?" Dean chuckled, "Not happening, dude. Dad can take care of himself, especially when he says so right off the bat. Believe me, if he needed me for a job we wouldn't be guessing. Besides, if you say we can trust these guys who says dad's all right, then I can live with that. And he said so himself, he'd be incommunicado for a little bit." Dean wiped his hands on his jeans and lumbered to his feet. He held onto the truck to steady himself. "I'm gonna go freshen up before we go."

"Me too," Bobby said, getting to his feet as well and discreetly grabbing Dean by the elbow as they walked to the house. While Dean has improved over the last couple of weeks, the limp was still pronounced. It was only to Bobby's relief that Dean didn't lean so heavily against his weakening body anymore though. Rumsfeld walked behind them right up 'til they reached the stairs, when he looked up at its length and decided that he had reached his daily quota for physical activity and willpower. He flopped where he stood, and Bobby dragged Dean along and deposited him in his room as he laughed at the dog's antics.

"I wish I could just do that," Dean said with a grin.

" " "

Dean sat alone on the corner of his bed for a few minutes. His duffel was packed and ready, sitting by his hip. He hated this, idle time that allowed for thought. He was not at all backing out, and he felt more committed than ever, but that didn't mean he wasn't feeling more and more on edge as the seconds ticked by. He'd never gone under the knife on a voluntary basis before, and Bobby's words as well as Carr's echoed in his ears: it was a serious procedure and he was at special risk... wasn't there anything that he wanted to say to anybody?

_Not really_, he decided. But he did want to know they were okay...

He tried his dad's phone before he could think twice, and that was a bust. Sam's phone rang a good number of times too, before it went to voice mail.

They felt inexplicably like rejections.

Dean wasn't counting on this for some reason, though he should have. He hasn't spoken to his father or brother in awhile, and it was ridiculous to assume that he could get through to either of them _just like that_ this time. Still... they say that the longest distance in the world is between the heart and the mind, and Dean's heart had hoped that maybe, maybe this one time that he really needed it would be that one time that Sam or his dad answered right away. _So much for that_. He was like a compulsive gambler, buying a bingo-scratch ticket with his last two bucks thinking this was the ticket that would change his life, just because he needed it badly enough and it was his last chance.

"Yo bitch," he said at the end of the beep, missing just a beat in mild panic over not having thought about what to say to Sam beforehand, "Just checking up on 'ya. La--"

His phone started to buzz: _Call waiting_.

"That's probably you," Dean said and ended the message, before answering Sam's call, "Hey man!"

"Hey!" Sam greeted, and his voice was over-loud. Dean winced and pulled the phone from his ear a little bit.

"You lost your hearing while listening to the boring lectures over there?" Dean asked.

"What?" Sam asked.

"You lost your--"

"No!" Sam replied, finally figuring out what Dean meant, "It's just really noisy over here, some party in the dorm."

"College sounds awesome," Dean commented, straining to hear the background a little bit more: clinking glasses, drunken laughter, chatter, music.

"Yeah... hey gimme a sec," Sam said, and he vanished for two seconds, as if he said 'hi' to someone who passed by. Dean caught the tail end of the greeting, Sam saying to whoever it was that "_...It's Dean!_"

When Sam returned to the call, the background was quiet.

"You said '_It's Dean_,'" Dean pointed out, "Someone knows me over there?"

"They know I have a brother," Sam replied casually, "Why?"

Dean brightened a little bit at that; that someone over at that _other life_ knew Sam had a Dean out in _this life_ was inexplicably warming.

"Nothing," Dean said cheerfully, "You got laid yet?"

"You're gross, Dean," Sam sighed, "How about if you ask me how my classes are going?"

"Your classes are great," Dean said dismissively, "They're always great. Your love-life on the other hand..."

"Love," scoffed Sam, "I don't think that's what you're getting at."

"Okay sex," Dean quickly corrected, "Fine, whatever you wanna call it. I was trying to be discreet, brother. You're so crass, Sammy. Pick up a little bit of class out there, would you?"

"I'm okay with that situation," Sam said carefully, "No need to worry about... any of that. And that's not what I'm in school for anyway."

"Just be careful," Dean said "Don't give any chick some souvenir, you know what I mean? And if you don't manage '_that situation_' properly, you might get so deprived you end up with someone fugly – we don't want that."

"_Fugly_?" Sam laughed, "You're so schizophrenic, man. One minute you're talking like a horny jerk in a sleazy bar and the next you sound like a twelve-year-old girl's text message."

"You're the girl."

"Not one of your finer moments," Sam laughed again before he paused in thought, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah I am," Dean replied. And it was the truth too, he realized.

"Is dad?"

"Yup," Dean said, "Everything's fine, Sam. Just 'cos I'm calling doesn't mean it's the apocalypse or something. You on the other hand..."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Dean answered quickly, "It's all good, Sammy-o. Just checking up on you."

They talked a couple of minutes more; nothing serious, and nothing even remotely close to anything relating to Dean going to the hospital. Sam sounded well, he sounded happy and excited, like he was looking forward to things again. More people came and went in the background saying 'hi,' and as if Sam knew it made Dean feel a little warmer inside, he kept saying, '_Yeah it's Dean_.' The call was quick, the topics trivial. It all meant nothing and it all meant everything.

" " "

Dean and Bobby left the house shortly after Bobby's house-sitters came in: a female college student waiting for late enrollment for the fall semester and her boyfriend, a young hunter Bobby knew from wherever the hell he managed to pick up everyone else he knew, who was hanging around to keep her company and do some research in Bobby's library. The hunter drove Bobby and Dean to the hospital, they checked themselves in, changed into these ridiculous half-non-existent hospital gowns, and then finally settled in their room to wait both for the doctors to come in to take them to surgery and at the same time, _apparently_, to watch paint dry.

Can a guy be bored to death and be shit-scared at the same time?

"You can still change your mind," Bobby told him again, as the two men laid on beds next to each other in the pre-op room.

"No," Dean actually laughed, "Not on your life, old man."

"I can't make up for something like this," Bobby rambled nervously, "I can't-"

"Just thank me instead," Dean recommended mildly, echoing Bobby's own words to him.

Bobby looked at him meaningfully. He reached his right hand out across the space between their beds, and Dean shook it warmly.

"Thanks," Bobby said, voice low and a little bit broken.

It was a good word, he thought, _broken_. Everything about this experience was leaving him open and raw; opening himself up to this kid, letting himself be helped, having the courage to accept both his own weakness and someone else's kindness, and having the courage to owe someone so much. Not since he had his wife in his life did he feel this connection to the world: that someone can pick up where your strength leaves off, that someone can find fulfillment in giving to you. He'd always been a generous man himself, he thought. But being loved by someone was a grave responsibility too; it was hard to take from people, hard to be worthy of someone's sacrifice.

The doctors finally came in to take them away, and it took too long of them and also too soon.

"Rock and roll," Dean told him quietly, "See you on the other side, man."

" " "

_... The other side...?_

There was darkness and there was suddenly just light, light in unbearable quantities. The room was overbright; walls and ceilings and doctor's coats and sheets all luminous, melding together. The lines where things began and ended were indistinct, and everything looked welded together and haloed.

He felt like he meshed right in with everything and he felt the weight of it; unable to move, bearing this room's weight. He sank into his bed, his back felt like it had melted into the sheets and the cushions. His chest felt tight, and why shouldn't it? It carried the weight of the air and the heavy blankets. Everything in the room was part of him, and he couldn't move, couldn't carry all this shit around.

"Dean?"

The sound felt like it was coming from _inside _his ear. It reverberated around the room, around his head. He wanted to speak but he was so weighed down, so tired carrying all this around that he couldn't even open his mouth and muster the energy to talk.

"Dean?"

A familiar face broke into his line of vision. He realized he knew full-well who she was and consequently where he was and why.

_Doctor Carr_...

"C-c--" he tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick, and the consonants got caught in his dry throat. He heaved a breath; his chest was still heavy, and he wanted all the damn things he was hooked to removed. _Right now_. Let the lines sharpen, cut him from everything that weighed him down, set him free. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, could barely think...

She put a cool, soft hand to his head. It was a familiar feeling, and there could have been just one source of that memory: _Mom..._

He must have said it aloud; the whole room was part of him, an extension of his body and his thoughts, and they were like a big lumbering machine together. His thoughts must have been the predominant sound in the room.

Carr looked unbearably sad, and this made his heart beat faster, because he knew who she was and knew where he was and why...

"B-b-bobby? Is h-h-h..." he asked, beginning to feel agitated. He couldn't speak so he tried to move, but he couldn't, and his heart just thundered louder in his ears. The room was an extension of him, and when his heart beat and the sound was loud, it drowned out everything.

_Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep_ his heart went in his chest, and the world outside echoed it sharply. This room was all him, everything in it he carried...

He could see Dr. Carr's mouth move, but he couldn't hear a thing, not a thing over his wildly beating heart anymore. He could feel her cold hands on his face, his neck, the force of her grip as she held him by the chin and tried to hold his gaze. Her hands were like ice now, and he shuddered. When he started he couldn't stop, and the room shook with him. The room practically _exploded _with him.

" " "

Things felt more _right_ the next time he woke.

The lines were clearer, and he could finally distinguish where his body ended and where everything else in the room began, for one. And nothing felt more right than having someone sitting by his bed. On a wheelchair looking like he came from the business-end of a werewolf-tussle was Bobby, and it was still as awesome a start as he could imagine.

"Welcome back," the older hunter said, his lined face brightening. It made Dean rethink the meaning of luminous light, how those eyes crinkled and shown with joy.

"Where'd I go?" Dean asked, voice an unfamiliar rasp.

Bobby missed a beat, tried to be clever, "Oz."

Dean snorted, "Nah. I'm the one who never leaves."

"Thank god for that," Bobby said.

He fell back asleep, found out in the next few hours and days that his surgery hadn't really gone without a hitch. When Doctor Carr mentioned the term 'complications,' she damn well meant it; the words swam in Dean's head, all gazillion of them, all sounding like they had as many letters each in them as _supercalifragil_Ifuckingforgot_. _Only the important part stuck: he was gonna be fine, and so was Bobby.

They were discharged in good time with no further foreseeable problems. The doctors dumped them in wheelchairs, and Dean curbed the almost undeniable desire to race the older hunter to the door. Doctor Carr assigned them each a burly orderly to make sure this little fantasy remained just that. With a glinting eye, she gave them instructions and prescriptions and a series of appointments to check their recovery progress, and then merrily sent them on their way. Glumly, Dean let himself be pushed alongside Bobby to the rotunda of the hospital's main entrance, where they had arranged for Bobby's hunter-house-sitter to pick them up.

"You should keep one of these," Dean said to Bobby as they waited, patting on the armrests of the wheelchair, "For you in your old age."

"You're younger 'n me and you've spent more time on your ass in a chair like this than I have," Bobby replied good-naturedly, "And with that bum leg of yers..."

"Hey," Dean said, "I get rid of the cast in a couple of weeks. And I'm back on the good drugs now that I'm done saving your ass."

Bobby blanched, "Yeah, yeah, superhero."

"I'm gonna say something that doesn't sound right," Dean said, and his eyes lit up in that horrible way whenever he thought about a horrid joke, "I am _inside_ you, man. That is one freaky freaky thing."

"That sounds disgusting," Bobby said, "And you're an idjit but I'm still grateful."

"What the hell--" Dean suddenly exclaimed, and Bobby knew what he was talking about because _the arrogant rumbling of that goddamn car was unmistakable..._

The Impala ate up ground all lordly and gleaming black, and that self-aware, unconscionable purr was her soundtrack. She was a gorgeous piece of work, that beauty, and it was just a little too bad that her arrival inextricably heralded the arrival of John Winchester...

The Impala pulled up to a stop in front of the two stunned men, and immediately, Bobby clamped a hand against Dean's wrist because by crazy instinct, the younger hunter was straightening up and making every indication at rising to stand, as if his father had said '_Attention_!'

"Easy," Bobby counseled him, though his heart thundered in his own chest. Dean hesitated, but stayed where he was.

John emerged from the car, and for one reason or another, the first thing his gaze caught was Bobby's hand on Dean's wrist. His eyes rose to meet that of his son's, and then the other hunter's.

"Hey dad," Dean greeted him, and he sounded almost shy, shifting his weight in the chair uneasily. Bobby let go of his wrist, and the two men rose cautiously to their feet. The burly orderlies who had pushed their wheelchairs to the door handed them each a cane, which they took at roughly the same time and leaned on in roughly the same way. John watched with a cold eye.

"Remember what your doc said," Dean's Frankenstein said to him, "You were stubborn about crutches and canes when it was just your leg, but now you gotta ease the strain on the kidney too. Don't make your body work too hard, kid."

Dean didn't say anything, just watched his father's face as John digested this information. He watched John hungrily, wondering what he was thinking, what he already knew, what he felt about all this. Staring at his father made him realize a few things too: his dad gained a little bit of weight and it looked good on him, made his skin look flush instead of sallow. His beard was still there but it looked trimmed and tame, and his clothes were so clean Dean could smell them from where he stood. He looked good, he looked like he'd been taking care of himself better than he had in years.

John opened the backseat of the car and motioned Dean in. Though it was not his usual spot, Dean did as he was told. John closed the door after settling Dean inside with his and Bobby's bags. From inside the car, he heard his father hiss at the older hunter, "Damned if I'm not tempted to leave your sorry ass here on the curb, Singer. But I won't make a scene. There's things we gotta talk about, man to man."

Dean's eyes met Bobby's, and the older hunter averted his gaze and limped to the passenger side. John let him settle there on his own, let him close his own door. The three of them sped down the road away from the hospital, headed for Bobby's house.

" " "

The entire car ride was silent, and Dean watched as John's jaw clenched and unclenched. His father was blind-pissed, he could tell, but there was something else there, something like doubt and fear that Dean did not understand. They pulled over to a stop at Bobby's, stepped inside the house one by one, and then all hell broke lose.

"You," John said, pointing at Dean, "What the hell have you done?"

"I--" Dean stammered, glancing at Bobby.

"No lies," John snapped, "And stop looking at Singer like you're asking for his goddamn permission, Dean. I'm your father and I'm talking to you. I leave a couple of weeks and I find my goddamn phone with all this nonsense about you being in a bad way and that I had to get here and what? I call back and call again and reach nobody, and when I get to this house I find out from two kids that you're both in the hospital for a transplant operation?"

"Dad-"

"Shut up, John," Bobby growled, the tone rattling his cage, "Give him a break, all right? This is all my fault-"

"You're damned right it is!" John raged, "I leave my son in your care, you're supposed to look after him and what - you use him for spare parts?"

"It wasn't like that--" Dean tried to cut in.

"Get your own goddamn son, Singer!" John growled, "You had no right, _no right_ to take advantage of him like that."

"He didn't-" Dean attempted, only to be drowned out by Bobby.

"I wasn't in a position to say no, John!" Bobby exclaimed, "I was dying, and I needed it and I couldn't say no when he offered, all right? I couldn't. I wasn't big enough a person to say no, I know that. I _needed it_. But you know what else? I needed _you_ here. _Dean _needed you here. I needed you to pull the plug on all of this. I made all that shit up about Dean being hurt worse than he was because I needed you to come in to stop all of it. I called you, I called you every night, I practically said he was dying, and you still didn't come!"

John winced, because it was bare-bones accusation now, as cold as it could come. Bobby caught his breath, and wished he hadn't said it, for Dean's sake. Dean was wide-eyed and unbearably quiet, letting the revelation sink in; that Bobby tried to stop him, that Bobby tried to get his father to come by saying he was hurt, that his father didn't come even after all of that.

Rage, indignation and defensiveness coursed through John dangerously. "Me being in the wrong doesn't change the fact that I asked you take care of my son, and you used him. You used us." He turned to Dean angrily, "And you... For god's sake, Dean. If it's not Sam it just has to be anybody? You so desperate for someone to need you?"

Dean flinched, and his eyes watered, looked stricken. Watching his face, Bobby would have taken a swing at John if he wasn't on the mend--

_You know what?_ Bobby thought, _Screw that_.

He tossed away his cane and lunged at John and John lunged right back. But it was Dean who he caught in the middle, because the youngest hunter of the three stepped right in the melee.

It was ungraceful at best, a stupid little brawl between two invalids and a reckless, angry man who didn't really want to hurt anybody. They were a mess of arms and legs and curses and grunts, that ended with Dean being pushed to the ground, and Bobby wrapping his arm around a shotgun that he had in his living room and pointing it John's way.

John stood stock still, not even staring at the gun. His eyes held Bobby's coolly.

"Everyone calm the fuck down," Dean gasped from the floor, breathing harshly, "All right? Everyone calm the fuck down."

"Don't you go starting anything you can't finish, Singer," John growled.

"Dad for god's sake don't tempt him," Dean groaned, clutching at his leg and side as he worked his way to standing, using the wall for leverage.

"He's the one who swung first," John said evenly, "And he's the one with the gun."

"Put it down, Bobby," Dean sighed, "You ain't shooting anyway."

Bobby blinked, and then did as requested. He looked away, feeling more ashamed than ever. "You're a goddamn bastard, Winchester."

"You too," John snapped back.

"What do you want from me John?" Bobby asked, eyes boring into the other hunter's, "An apology? You got it. My gratitude? You got it. What the hell do you want from me? From anybody?"

There was a thick silence in the room following Bobby's question, so thick even John found it unbearable.

"I don't know what I woulda done if I got here sooner," he admitted quietly, "I don't know if I'd have stopped things or let them go on. I do know - and damn well at that- that I wouldn't have wanted you to die. I wouldn't have wanted you to die, but I wouldn't have risked my son like this operation did either. 'Cos you gotta be honest about this – he was already bad off, and I just almost lost him. It _did _risk him, didn't it?"

"I was fine," Dean said quickly, "And we were very careful--"

"Yes," Bobby cut him off, eyes clouding in dark memory of the days that followed the surgery. Dean had almost bled out during the operation, and he really bottomed-out, his body unable to take the trauma of it so soon after his near-miss. Bobby remembered the listless gaze, the flesh that burned beneath Bobby's hands, the panting breaths that sometimes just stopped... god, he remembered how fervently he prayed that John wouldn't come just then. _Damn right_ he had risked Dean.

"I wouldn'tve wanted you to die," John said again, "But I wouldn't have risked my son like that. I got caught unawares, and I can't wrap my head around all this yet. I can't... I can't be here now, with you, I can't even look at you. And I don't want my son around here either."

"It was my idea, dad," Dean said, "It was my idea and it was my choice. Not yours, and with Bobby as bad off as he was, he didn't have much of one either. This is my choice, and I was laid up off my leg anyway, the recovery time wouldn't have mattered. I'd have still been able to hunt in the same amount of time it took to recover from the leg."

"It don't have to make sense Dean," John said, "For me to have a right to be pissed about something. And it's not just about you getting sidelined on a hunt, for god's sakes, gimme some credit here. God knows you get hurt badly enough without... all this other shit. You don't need any of this... shit. Everything else is hard enough." He ran his hands through his hair in weariness, "Get your things together, Dean. We're getting out of here. I'll wait in the car."

Dean stood frozen where he was. He didn't want to leave yet, and he sure as hell did not want to leave like this. His father stared at him, and there was something in his eyes that Dean had never seen before: fear, fear that Dean wouldn't follow. Fear that Dean would leave him too.

It scared his father enough into stammering honesty, "I'd have c-come, Dean. If I knew sooner, if I'd have paid attention to my phone some more. It's just that I thought you were okay here. But I'd have come if you were bad off, you gotta know that."

"I _was_ okay here," Dean corrected him softly.

John looked stricken, because it could have meant a lot of things – _I was okay without you. I don't want to go with you. I'd rather be here. I'm going to leave you too_...

John walked out the door, back to his car. He looked so strangely dejected, waiting there in the driver's seat for his son to come out. And Dean was going to come out, they all knew it; he couldn't _not_.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Dean said, and the silence held while the two men gathered Dean's things from here and there. It was at the tip of Bobby's tongue to ask Dean to screw his dad and stay, but he didn't. He knew enough about Dean to be certain that to have asked him would have been forcing him to make a choice he didn't want to make. Realizations about what he would choose could crush a man. Better not to think about it.

"Sam," Dean said into the silence suddenly, as if his mind was running along the same lines as Bobby's, "He never insisted I go with him, when he left. I don't know if he just didn't wanna hear 'no,' or if he knew it woulda broken me to say it, to make that choice of one or the other between him and dad."

"He's a sharp kid," Bobby murmured. He walked Dean to the door, and peered at him closely, "Don't push too hard, Dean, all right? You know how serious this was. Anything happens to you and it's on me, you get that? If you get hurt or sick out there because you're careless about this then it's on me."

"So you just don't wanna feel guilty," Dean tried to joke, tried to wink, but it all fell flat and lonely in the silence.

"You're an idjit," Bobby said, but he gave the younger hunter a hug that had them both wincing and cursing in pain but clinging like it was life and death.

"_You're_ an idiot," Dean muttered when they pulled away and both found themselves rubbing at their sore sides, "I'm sorry about what dad said, Bobby. He's your friend, you know how he gets. He just needs to let the idea sink in. He'd have done the same for you, I think."

"I can never hate your old man, kid," Bobby assured him, "He churned out somethin' like you, so he must've done something right."

"I told you he's an overachiever," Dean snickered, tried to cover up for his cheeks blushing.

"You take care now, Dean," Bobby said, "And you call me any fricking time, for anything you need."

"Nothing in life's for free old man," Dean grinned, "You know I will."

To be concluded in an Epilogue and Afterword...


	5. Chapter 5

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **With Blood**

Summary:Bobby Singer was just a friend to a widower, not minding the occasional babysitting. But his devotion for the Winchester family truly began when he was struck by a terminal illness and saved only by a sacrifice from Dean. Pre-Series.

" " "

**Epilogue**

" " "

_Lazarus Rising_

2008

" " "

_Surprise_, Dean Winchester had said as he stood by Bobby Singer's door and _just like that_! he was back in Bobby's life, as if he had ever left. Because he'd died, sure, but he never left...

_I'm the one who never leaves_, Dean told him to his profound relief once, but after Dean died, Bobby hated it with a passion. When he told Dean the last few months haven't been easy, he damn well meant it. Everything in his house, even his own body was a reminder of that stupid idiot. When Sam left, there was a part of Bobby that was relieved that one more painful reminder of Dean Winchester had gone out his door.

_Surprise_, Dean had said, and since then they've gone from catching up on what happened over the last few months while Dean was away to tracking down Sam, to now being in Bobby's car on their way to see him.

Dean was asleep on the passenger side, looking thoroughly wrung-out. Trips to hell and back were supposed to do that, Bobby figured. But he looked so damn _dead_ that Bobby's heart started speeding up and he suddenly found himself pulled up to the shoulder of the road, shit-scared that Dean had died along the length of the trip or that he was going stir-crazy.

His hand shot out to Dean's shoulder, and he really should have thought this over before startling a fellow-hunter, because suddenly Dean had a knife to his throat and a madness in his eyes that told Bobby without a shadow of a doubt, that while Dean had been asleep and Bobby was reliving the hell of having lost him, Dean was reliving a hell of his own inside his head.

"Jesus christ," Dean gasped, pulling away from Bobby and scrambling to get out the car, falling to his hands and knees on the ground and dry-heaving in sickness, "I coulda fucking killed you," he glared up at Bobby, who got out the car and stood, watching over him uncertainly as he threw up.

"I really coulda," Dean went on as he heaved some more, "I coulda killed you. You don't do shit like that, Bobby. I can really hurt people." The thought of that seemed to have made him more sick, "I really hurt people."

"Dean..." Bobby breathed, but he wasn't sure what to say, wasn't even sure what to think outside of _What's life thrown at you this time_?

He'd seen the younger man when he was a wary kid, a gentle soul hidden behind walls so thick Bobby had to barrel through them. He remembered the first time they met, John looking like he was at the end of his rope, ineffectively concealing hunting injuries from his young sons. Dean – then just seven or eight years old - stood between his father and Sam, and he had his hands clutching his father's and brother's. John was beat to hell and Sam was half-asleep and they both looked like dead weight. Dean was wide-awake, compensating for all three of them.

Bobby patched John up under Dean's watchful eye, and Sam slept on the bed curled up against his father, the two boys lending John their own brands of comfort. Bobby felt uneasy over this man-child and how he stared, took everything in. When he said he was getting the Winchesters food to eat, Bobby was pretty sure Dean trailed him in the kitchen not because he wanted to help, but because he wanted to make sure that Bobby didn't slip anything in their food, or didn't do anything to bring his family to danger. Well that, and to show Bobby exactly how Sam liked his mac and cheese.

_Figures as since you're here ya might as well be useful_, Bobby remembered telling Dean, and the kid had been all up for it, up until he burned his hand. He was going to keep it from Bobby, but the older hunter sat him down on the lid of the toilet, told him his dad was gonna get right-pissed if they didn't take care of it, and Bobby patched Dean up.

He liked the kid as early as then; he was a tough bastard who didn't let up, didn't know when to quit, didn't know how. He knew John Winchester's sad-ass story because everyone did; there was no other hunter crazy enough to drag two kids around in hunts with him. Bobby had a thing or two to say about that, but it wasn't his business. Either way, from the stories, he felt sorry for the kids. From when he met them, he admired them.

Since that first meeting, he'd seen Dean in all his forms, standing up against everything that rammed its way into his life. He'd seen Dean in quiet intensity when they were working. He'd seen Dean bear unimaginable physical pain. He'd seen Dean in all his quiet generosity to Sam, his devotion to his father, his dedication to his job. He'd seen Dean in wistful quiet, he'd seen him in all forms of humor – loud and lewd, or subtly witty and clever. He'd seen Dean pissed as hell and desperate, interrogating a demon on a quest to rescue his father. He'd seen Dean in impotent rage after his father's death. He'd seen Dean in slipping masks, not knowing what to do about his brother. He'd seen Dean at his lowest low, after losing Sam.

Sometimes he knew how to help him, other times he didn't. One of his greatest regrets in life was walking away from Dean and Sam's corpse saying, '_You know where I'll be_.' He thought about that damn day for months, how much different things would have been if he just stayed; Dean wouldn't have made a crossroads deal, Dean wouldn't have died... a lot of would-not-have-been's. He thought long and hard about why he left in the first place; he left for the same reasons he left Dean to his quiet suffering years ago, when he was bearing his pain for Bobby – Bobby wanted to respect his space. Bobby wanted to give him the avenue to cry and rage for his catharsis, and he wasn't going to do that in front of anybody. Bobby left because he didn't think Dean would be so desperate he'd sell his soul. Bobby left because the world was ending and it needed him too. Bobby left because seeing Dean the way he was... it was crushing. It felt like deep and profound hopelessness, stifling the very air around him. Bobby could only explain that feeling as being like... when he was a kid and he saw his father cry, it felt like the absolute end of the world. If the one person whom you've always believed could make things right was in tears, then you'd better believe you are _fucked_. That was how it felt like; Dean, who could carry on in the face of everything, damn near tears, meant that they were in an irredeemable situation.

_I should have stayed_, Bobby thought. He'd thought it the whole year they tried to look for ways to save Dean from the deal. He'd thought it the last months that Dean was burning in hell. He was thinking it even now, looking at the worn-out kid heaving on the ground in front of him.

"I'm sorry," he suddenly blurted out.

"What?" Dean asked, his confusion enough of a distraction that he began to gather himself from the ground. He wiped at his mouth with his sleeve.

"I should have stayed," Bobby stammered, "I shouldn't have left--"

He wished fervently that he stayed, especially thinking that at that point – Mary and John and Sam dead - everyone in Dean's life had left him.

His voice broke off, and Dean just stared at him for a long moment, finally figuring out that he was apologizing for having left Dean at Cold Oak.

"I'd have found a way," Dean told him evenly, "Alone or with a crowd, Bobby, you have to know that. I couldn't let him die. He's my brother. I'd do it again."

Bobby shuddered at the thought. If things happened all over again, he'd jump in a crossroads himself and beat Dean to it. The months without him... they were unimaginable. There was guilt and failure, yes, but more than anything was that there was a profound sense of _loss_. That was the worse feeling of all: guilt he could blame himself for. Blaming himself meant he could devote himself to work and try to make up for his shortcomings. Failure was also something he could punish himself for. But loss? Just the sense of absence, inaccessibility, and all your happy memories tainted by the certainty that it was gone forever? That's what had him swimming in bottles of liquor.

"Well don't," Bobby said quietly.

Dean shrugged, staggered forward and leaned against Bobby's car. He was shaking a little bit with cold sweat and weariness and nerves that were just _shot_.

"You all right?" Bobby asked, and it was a stupid question, but what the heck.

"No," Dean admitted, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly. Bobby hated the sound, hated the weary defeat in his eyes, "God, Bobby. I really coulda killed you. Don't fucking do that again."

Bobby watched him carefully, and there were things here that weren't being said, he knew. Hell was not a place you left unscarred. _What's _death_ thrown at you this time..._?

"I'm good now," Dean said.

"We can stop by somewhere--"

"Wanna see Sam," Dean insisted, "Gotta see Sam."

"Okay," Bobby said, "You got it."

Dean settled back in the passenger seat, and Bobby reclaimed his driver's side.

"I came from hell and I'm still the one running after people," Dean muttered as he shifted and closed his eyes, "You saw that crap of a car I had to use to get to your place? The next time someone calls using my voice, Bobby, for crying out loud, give 'im the benefit of the doubt."

Bobby snorted, started the car and then hesitated. He reached behind him to the backseat, drew out and unfolded a blanket. Dean started when it was draped over him.

"Didn't we just have this talk?" Dean complained. But Bobby was relieved that he didn't physically lash out, or try to stop Bobby from fussing. A guy doesn't leave hell unscarred, yeah, but Dean didn't enter it without being buffered by strength or love. He let Bobby have his way and once he began, Bobby couldn't stop trying to make it perfect. When he fussed, he really _fussed_, and it was like his hands couldn't stop from smoothing at the blanket, making sure Dean was warm. It made him feel useful, made him feel damn _blessed_ that he could do this service because it meant Dean was back.

_Dean's back..._

_Surprise_, the damn idiot had said, standing by his door, back as if he had ever left.

_I'm the one who never leaves_...

Bobby's eyes watered in relief.

"This is the part where I say," Dean said softly, "I'm sorry old man, I am not comfortable with this and that I should scream or run and call another adult."

Bobby sniffed, hid it in a laugh.

"I'm not really cold," Dean said, "It's the damn shakes. My fucking nerves, man, it's all turned to shit. It goes away in the morning. You just gotta leave it alone.."

"You can't expect to be the same, Dean," Bobby told him gently, "Sometimes you gotta just take help 'cos sometimes, shit like this? It's gonna be around in the morning. So you just sit back, and let me be here too, all right?"

"Don't bother--"

"Heck yeah I'm gonna bother," Bobby retorted, "We just got you back, Dean. We get to do things like this for a little while, and you get to shut your trap and take it."

"Bobby..." Dean hesitated, "I don't... I don't des-" he bit his tongue before he could continue, and Bobby wondered what he could have meant. _Deserve_? He didn't _deserve_ to be cared for?

"I did some things," Dean said, and his eyes clouded, went distant and glassy and far away. "These things..." he bit his tongue again, and Bobby stared at him for a long time.

"Dean?"

He blinked and instead of continuing, said "I'm just supposed to shut my trap and take it, huh?"

Bobby blinked too, feeling disoriented by the shift, "Yeah."

"Like I can ask for pie and other crap," Dean said, smiling a little.

"Anything you want," Bobby said, and he was damn serious too.

"How about we get this show on the road?" Dean asked.

Bobby did as promised, feeling troubled about what Dean was trying to say. But it's only been a day, and the most important thing was that Dean was back... hurting, but back. Bobby will get him to Sam if he died doing it. He'd get him pie and anything else Dean could think of. Whatever the hell was going on they'd fix it. Dean was back, and that was about all Bobby could ask for.

**The End**.

September 24, 2009

" " "

**Afterword**

" " "

**Contents**

**I. Medical Disclaimers and Organ Donation**

**II. Tie-in With The Series**

**III. The Characters**

**A. Dean**

**B. Bobby**

**C. John**

**D. Sam**

**IV. Massive Thanks and Replies**

**V. The Next Project/s**

" " "

**I. Medical Disclaimers and Organ Donation**

To my mother's despair, haha, I never turned out to be a doctor. _With Blood_, I think, by now has shown the depth (or lack thereof) of my grasp of medicine or ability to convey my research knowledge with confidence. With this in mind, I made sure to stick to the basics, and used supernatural excuses when I could, haha; Bobby's illness is from a supernatural cause, with luckily naturally curable consequences.

There are three 'real life' medical notes that can be taken from _With Blood_. The first is that, as one reviewer generously shared her knowledge to me, many people manage to live long and fruitful lives with some levels of kidney failure. Diagnoses like these must not be met with paralyzing fear; there are almost always options and routes that could be explored.

Second, it must be noted that organ failures and transplants are extremely complex – far more complex than as depicted in_ With Blood_. To begin with, the need for a transplant is contingent upon many physiological factors, even the allowance of inclusion in a transplant list banks on a lot of processes. Following that, testing procedures for donors involve physical aspects: general physical health, health history, blood-type matching, tissue-typing, even reactions of antibodies, are checked for. The testing procedures also involve psychological aspects for donors to assure that they are in the proper frame of mind to make these decisions. I believe there is also a lot of legislation protecting rights of donors that involve social case workers who check financial records and other indicators that may show if the choice to donate is properly made. Even recovery times are tricky, and all of this is to say nothing of complications, because consequences vary from case to case. There are also several kinds of live donation, and I think there's even a kind where if a donor doesn't match with a targeted recipient, the donor can be matched up to someone else's donor who doesn't match his targeted recipient. There's just a whole huge world out there of research that is interesting, far wider than _With Blood_ can feature.

Lastly, I am personally amenable to organ donation and this is even indicated in the ID that I carry around in my wallet. I personally believe that it's its own version of everyday heroism. As a disclaimer, _With Blood _is hardly the sort of document to use as a contributing factor to your own decision if you want to be an organ donor too. But inextricably, since it is the subject of the fic, the topic is out there, and it is always worth thinking about. If you are intrigued, inform yourself because there is a lot of information out there.

Anyway, that aside, I took the creative liberty of breezing past the technicalities and focusing instead on the more prevalent, dramatic theme of _With Blood_, which was the element of sacrifice and the willingness to accept aid.

**II. Tie-In With the Series**

Some of you might have noted the recurring lines borrowed from the series? I wanted to use the language as a tool for characterization, like an emphasis of them being who they are and talking how they talk, if that makes any sense, haha. Foremost of all these, of course, was the title of the fic itself – _With Blood_ was borrowed from Bobby's statement to Dean in _No Rest for the Wicked_: 'Family don't end with blood, boy.' Which my fic also used as Dean's way of convincing Bobby to accept his help. Less notable lines borrowed from the series would be Bobby's '_Damn it Dean' _or '_I could throttle you_,' and Dean asking Bobby how long he had left and Bobby answering a year, which was meant to be reminiscent of _All Hell Breaks Lose_. There might be a few more lines snuck here and there that I can't think off right off the bat, but anyway, that's why they're there: to make _With Blood_ a more believable part of the series, and to swap perspectives around that would allow us to believe how these two stubborn characters alternately convince the other to accept help :)

**III. The Characters**

As always, I do my standard explanation of possibly questionable character depictions in this section:

**A. Dean**

I was actually very scared of his 'soft' depiction here. When he was explaining to Bobby in Chapter 2 of why he had a right to butt into Bobby's business, I totally re-hashed that part maybe thrice or so, haha, because I was so cautious that the chick-flick-moment was uncharacteristic. But we all know Dean can be the king of denial too, so I chick-flick-moment-ed away, and could only hope that the end result is not too much of a divergence from how people imagine him to be.

When I write a story, I get inspired by scenes or lines that I build a plot around. The first lines that gave birth to _With Blood _were Dean's when he told his doctor that pain he could live with, losing Bobby he couldn't. From then on, the fic just grew, but I used that as the cornerstones of his characterization here: Dean is a big bag of love and pain because of it both literally - through the pain he suffers for his donation – and figuratively – what I referred to as the 'asymmetry of his love' where he can care for people who all leave him behind. It's love all shrouded in pain, if that makes sense to you :) Angst aside though, I hope fervently that I still managed to retain his sense of humor and his fighting spirit because Dean is not Dean without those.

**B. Bobby**

From how much Bobby helps the boys in the series, it makes sense that he should be perceived as part of the family, even like a father to Dean. But what was the source of _his_ devotion to them? What keeps Bobby Singer devoted to the Winchesters? _With Blood_ became a thesis for that.

I actually am self-aware enough to know that I'm not the strongest of the Bobby writers out there but I am a fan, and hope that this shines through. I started writing this fic before season 5 came out and as the series zeroed in on him in the hospital and being hurt more and more, I started getting apprehensive about my characterization, haha. But I do hope I gave this beloved character a fair turn.

The thing about Bobby in season 5 is that we see him minus the superhero vibe that permeated his character in the previous seasons – he knew everything, even languages, and could kick ass too. How he is coping so far with his disabilities in season 5 shows a more human side that I hope is echoed in _With Blood_; he gets mean (as he had been in Chapter 1 in an effort to avoid confrontation), and of course he also gets scared.

My favorite Bobby-parts in _With Blood_ is actually when he is most 'broken,' or hesitant and out of his comfort zone: (1) when he is trying to figure out if he should interfere with Dean or not, if he had a place in the younger hunter's life that allowed for interference and open compassion; and (2) when he is trying to find the courage to say 'no' to Dean's offer but runs into a wall when he finds out he's just human and couldn't.

**C. John**

I never ever mean to vilify this man, I love the character and I love JDM, but his flaws are fascinating, and I could only hope that I also fairly portray the humanity of those flaws, how easy it is anyone can sink into his errors given the same position. In Chapter 1 we see that he loves his son and cares for him a lot, but we also have a sense of his delusion, which none of the two men who know him missed. When John told Sam in _In My Time of Dying_ that he tried his best, I think he really did and I hope that comes out in _With Blood_. He tried his best to raise a family in the context that his life crash-landed on. It was like trying to make lemonade out of vinaigrette; what came out was a sour approximation, but that was all he could do. So the John-paradigm in _With Blood_ is that he is a flawed but loving father who is too focused on his work.

Now, the unmentioned part of _With Blood_ also contributes to his absenteeism at this point in Dean's life. He was in Minnesota in 2002, and if I got the data correctly, Little Bro Adam was born in 1990, and asked his mother to get in touch with his dad when he was twelve. His dad is said to have left everything behind to meet him. John having spent time with that other family in 2002 is why I dropped hints of him sounding happy or looking healthy in this story. He understands his responsibilities to Dean and Sam and his late wife and society in general, but I think he still longs for normal too. He found the Milligans as his chance and occasional refuge for that. It's always been a series staple that he's more like Sam than either of them know and when I saw _Jump the Shark_ it was actually one of my first thoughts – it seemed that Dean was the only Winchester who never led a domesticated double-life.

One of my favorite scenes in _With Blood _is when John looks at Bobby and Dean jealously in Chapter 4; it's supposed to signify changes that happened after the transplant in the dynamics of Dean's fatherly relationships. In Chapter 1, it was Bobby watching father and son and he thinks about what was missing in his own family life, but it reverses in Chapter 4. It was also why John was prickly at Bobby: he'd been scared for Dean, he felt replaced, he was coming from the shock that was Adam, and well... the short of it is that he had a lot going on during the timeline even if it was not explicitly stated, and I just wanted to clarify that he is not a villain here, but also a victim of circumstances.

**D. Sam**

Okay, so Sam was barely in this story, haha... but I submit to you, and I feel very strongly about this, that _any__Supernatural_ fic that has just one of the two brothers inextricably has something to say about the other. In _With Blood_, what is glaring about Sam is his absence-presence. He is physically not in the story, but every single chapter had him there: chapter 1 emphasizes his absence. Chapter 2 noted Dean's longing to call him. Chapter 3 gives a reason of why Sam is not an active part of Dean's life anymore. Chapter 4 is a throwback to the fact that he left when John looks scared that he might lose Dean _too_. There's a small Sam side-story to _With Blood_ too :) And of course, the phone call cameo was one I could not resist; I had to establish that he and Dean were still somehow fine despite a lonely, natural 'drifting apart.' As Dean said to Bobby in the story – 'suddenly months turn to years and at the end of it all, maybe they still know each other and maybe they don't. They'd still care for each other, but maybe they'd still know each other and maybe they won't.' On a lighter note though, is that people in Sam's school knew he 'had a Dean' in his other life, and it was a small quirk that I really liked. Even Jess knew Dean in the Pilot, unless I remember incorrectly. Anyway, I figured it had to have given Dean a little bit of pleasure to know he was someone Sam would tell people about.

**IV. Massive Thanks and Replies**

As always, I am overwhelmed by the support and people reading, reviewing, alerting and favorite-ing me or my fics. I always say that this fandom is a tough one – the grasp of language, the knowledge of the nuances of pop culture, the outspoken fans – we've had to be tough, since this show is like the little engine that could, haha. We tend to be very protective of it, and I admire the fandom even as it scares the hell out of me, haha. But I do thank you sincerely, and as profoundly as I can possibly say, for taking the time to read and to let the tale sink in and involve you, and for sharing your insights. The reviews are invaluable both as encouragement and even more so for improvement. We truly are a community and we really help enrich each other, so thank you to all for your attention, and especially to all who reviewed:

adder 574, Aimed mischief, AllieMcD, alwaysateen, Amity Bell, AmyNY, anjali23sk, Anime's-misetress, Anne1013, annie2000, badaiwind, Batman'sBeauty18, calamitycrow (thanks for the reco!), cheryl24, CiZiwejes, DarkandtwistyGirl, deangirl1, em182, Emaya, embroiderama, Febraf, Foreverwolf, gr8read, greeneyedelf001, I'mcalledZorro, InSecret, JackFan2, K-Marie-M, ladie red, Lady Chekov, Lia Walker, Mandy, Marlowe97, masondixon, Maz101, Meggin Lane, milkyway22, Miyo86, mtee1958, notime, nvkjen, Ophium, Phoebe, Psychee, rogueclasique, snchills, sonoralie, suicidalqueen, Supernatural24, thevigilante15 and Yohko Bennington.

I also wish to thank those who reviewed anonymously; thank you so much for your generosity and your thoughts. Please note that I will be sending out more detailed PM responses to address some queries in the next few days, haha, so don't be surprised to hear from me again. In the meantime, I guess I just really wanted to thank everyone :) If I somehow got cross-eyed and missed your name, please call me out on it; I am of a complete and absolute commitment to express my gratitude for you sharing your time :)

**V. The Next Project/s**

Oh gosh, where do I start... I'm like writing three things all at the same time right now, haha... I think I'll end _With Blood_ sans a preview, since I haven't posted some stories that I've already previewed in past afterwords and I'm starting to feel like I owe a ton of people a ton of things, haha.

As an update though,_ Open, Shut_ (which was previewed at the end of _Steps Behind_) is already fully-written and is just in the beta stage, so look out for that :)I am also writing an expanded form of one of the un-drabbles from my post _The Bough Breaks_, which will be an account of that last hunt before Stanford that got so bad it finally got Sam packing his bags. There's a couple more, but if I started getting into that here I might never stop, haha.

I guess for now I just really want to convey my gratitude, and hope you found the fic enjoyable and worth your time. Please keep me in mind the next time you want to read an SN fic, as I will hopefully be posting more sometime soon :) 'Til the next post everyone!


End file.
